


Modern Orc

by Zoop (zoop526)



Series: Orcs in the Modern World [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Excessive use of Black Speech, Exile, F/M, Hallucinations, Language Barrier, Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoop526/pseuds/Zoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sauron was defeated, his servants scattered to the winds. They hid themselves deeply, waiting for their Master to call them forth once more. But what if that call never came?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out of the Darkness, Into the Light

The grinding of the stone as it was shoved back into place with finality would haunt his dreams for many nights to come. The wind of Outside bit through the meager hides and prickled his skin, long coated by dust and mud from the tunnels. A final glimpse of the elder who condemned him before the door closed showed a pitiless and cold face, an expression close to a sneer. It was the last time he would ever gaze upon one of his own kind.

Turning, he took his first numb look at what the elders called 'trees' and 'sky.' All was barren; the trees appeared as desperate black fingers thrust up from a white ground, eager to grasp the unwary. The sky above was vast, stretching above him as far as he could see in all directions. Almost as dark as the trees, it was pock-marked by tiny points of light that had no meaning in his vocabulary, but stirred something in him nonetheless. Was it awe? Wonder? Curiosity? Squeezing his eyes shut, he bowed his head.

He was flawed. How often had he been beaten or ridiculed for such distractions? Rock was for cutting through to open up space for settlement, not for examining closely and admiring for its delicate formations or amazing colors. Fish were for catching and eating, not for gazing at as they flitted through the sparkling water so gracefully. Orcs encroaching on the Uruk-hai territories were for killing, not for sharing stories.

Nargratûrz and his strange ideas were not things his proud, fierce people could tolerate. That they let him stay among them long enough to reach adulthood was more due to his dam than any other reason. With her fevered death came the removal of any allowance, even that of an honorable death in combat. No, for one such as he, so _different_ from the others, there was only exile.

Looking about him at the cold unknown, he wished even his sire had spoken for him. But Uruk males wanted strong, brave sons, not thoughtful ones. He had not laid eyes on his sire for so long, he doubted he'd even recognize the male's scent, much less his face. But truly, would one lone word in his favor have been enough?

Squatting on the ground, he hesitantly touched the crystalline whiteness. It was colder even than the air that froze his breath in white puffs as it left his mouth. The hides he wore were only that which he had made himself, all that his people allowed him, and hopelessly inadequate in such conditions. No weapons, no armor, no food; he was cast adrift to live or die by his own wiles or the mercy of his enemies. Perhaps his ancestors had been great hunters and trackers when they lived Outside, but none now recalled what they hunted or how they tracked prey. They well remembered who their enemies were, though: _shara-hai_.

The Uruk had often wondered what _shara_ looked like, what they smelled like, what they _were_ like; none now remembered except as vague references in stories. What he'd always been told was that avoidance meant survival. Grunting at the irony, he suspected he may soon learn the answers to his childish questions.

Rising, Nargratûrz sniffed the air. The air was sharp in his nostrils and caused a prickling sort of pain drawing it in. No scents were familiar; he was accustomed to the noisome still air of the dank tunnels. The silence was unnerving, for all his life had been filled with the echoing sounds of Orcish laughter, yelling, mating. He looked to the sky again, and saw a huge white circle there, shining down and sparkling on the ground. It was like a pale eye, watching him, and he cringed in fear.

Was this what became of the Red Eye? Was it blinded and made milky and unseeing, rather than destroyed utterly as the tales said? Or was it something else entirely?

Heart pounding in his chest, Nargratûrz looked about him for cover, something that might hide him from the Eye. The tales of the Red Eye were not entirely comforting ones; those of the White Hand less so. What malignance might the both together inflict upon him?

Turning, he ran, sinking knee-deep in the ground at times, brittle branches whipping his face like claws, but always behind him the White Eye followed unblinking. Breath coming in gasps, he careened through the trees, glancing off several, until finally his wind gave out and he collapsed in a heap. He looked above him; the White Eye remained watchful.

Slowly, his breathing calmed and his mind settled. He felt no different, and the White Eye was no closer. Perhaps it only watched. The children of the Eye and the Hand had not walked the land in many thousands of years. His presence must simply be of interest to this one.

Drawing deep breaths, he shifted to sit with his back against a tree, and watched the Eye hovering. Could this Eye be... a friend to his kind? Might its awareness of him be a benefit not a curse?

Whatever its intention, he decided he would not give it reason to punish him. Fear of this thing would not win its allegience, and would likely urge harsh treatment. Was not the same said of the Red Eye and the White Hand? Strength of heart, strength of arms, strength of will – these things were of value to the Eye and the Hand. He must assume this Eye craved the same.

 _I am not weak as they said I am,_ he told the Eye. _I am not worthless._ _They can strip me of who I was, but they cannot touch me now. I am beyond even_ _ **their**_ _reach._ The thoughts gave him some comfort.

The night gave him none. He was startlingly cold for the first time in his life. Orcs and Uruk-hai alike were hot-blooded enough that the chill conditions of the deep caves were no hardship. Hides were hard to come by in the deep underground, so any who had them wore them until they nearly dissolved from overuse. There had never been a need to layer them or line them for warmth, for the temperatures were constant. He had scarcely improved on the crude clothing he wore over the years since laboriously stitching them together, spending most of his time in metal armor when his tribe made war on another.

Now he found the inattention to warmth was a serious mistake.

Standing with difficulty in the deep white earth, he found that his legs and backside were wet. Was there a pool beneath the tree that he had not seen? He had no memory of fording a stream in his panicked flight. Reaching down, he picked up the white earth and examined it, rubbing it between his fingers, clenching his fist and marveling at how the substance formed to the inside of his hand. Leaving it wet.

Calm reason returned to him. Sinking to his knees, he dug through the white earth until he reached the black. Though he had no word for it, he began to understand that the white earth covered what he was more accustomed to. Even Outside, there was earth, rich and black, though this earth was nearly rock-hard. From the cold, he mused. Just as he would soon be if he did not find shelter soon.

He sniffed the air again, but there was nothing on the wind that told him anything. No exiled Orc had returned to teach the others how to survive Outside; no stories told of anything save what the world was when his kind followed the Orcs into hiding. Before that, only incomplete tales told what soldiers marching to and from war had seen. Nothing practical, nothing that would tell him how to eat, where to sleep, what to do to survive. But then, banishment was not about surviving.

Refusing to give in while he still drew breath, Nargratûrz stood and began to search for a hollow, a cave, anything that would keep this unnatural wind from striking him so mercilessly. Then he could think, and plan.

Perhaps even live.

* * *

Less than a mile away, a small cabin stood in a clearing. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, only to be dispersed quickly. Inside, a fireplace housed a roaring fire; in front of the hearth a wolfhound was curled, snuffling occasionally in her sleep. In the otherwise dark single-room cabin, a woman sat at a desk, elbows resting on the surface, fingers tangled in her long dark hair, bespectacled eyes staring blankly at the monitor's glow.

It wasn't getting any better.

Freelance work only paid when you had something to submit, and Sam had hit a brick wall. Had all the good stories already been told? She had a list of touchy-feely sort of topics a mile long, but none appealed. A research assignment into a possibly underhanded local legal firm – dullsville. Not even the recent event hosted by a local SCA group down in the village held much interest, even if it did flush several of her cousin's friends out of the woodwork in their best prosthetics and armor.

The serious historian types were not amused.

Sighing, she finally gave up, closed the laptop lid, got up, and stretched her aching back. Her muse had not only left her, he had given her the finger and set her house on fire. Coming to her uncle's cabin may have been a mistake; it was too early to tell. Perhaps another day or two of hiking, jogging, vegging out in the arms of Mother Nature would relight the spark of creativity she missed.

The wolfhound's head rose from the rug when Sam stood. Big floppy ears perked up.

"Don't bother getting up, Darûk," the woman grumbled. "Nothing exciting ever happens around here."


	2. Orc Meets Dog

The morning brought new horrors to the exiled Uruk. Nargratûrz woke to a world sparkling with crystals; even the hides he wore glittered. It seemed a fresh coating of the white earth had settled on him during the night.

Beautiful to him it might have been, but for the inexplicable glare that seared his eyes without mercy.

He'd found a felled giant, clearly one of the trees that had grown to enormous girth before death and rot had weakened it and brought it down. A large chunk of the tree's side had collapsed and sloughed off, leaving a hollow place large enough for Nargratûrz to curl his body into. It was soft and close, and best of all, shielded him from the biting wind. It was from this refuge he emerged, blinking in confusion, into the light.

For one accustomed and well-suited to the sparsely lit dimness of the tunnels, it was blindingly bright. Where before the sky was black with tiny white pinpricks of light, now there were giant hovering masses ponderously flowing and merging seemingly so close he could reach out and touch them. The colors were variations of white and blue, mixing into darker purples. He had never seen anything like it, and watched with rapt fascination though the light hurt his small yellow eyes.

Searching through squinted eyes, he tried to find the White Eye. It seemed to have fled before this brightness, leaving a diffused yellowish Eye behind.

The Yellow Eye was indistinct in its shape, seeming to peer weakly around and through the tumbling masses, sometimes hidden by their shifting forms. However, _this_ Eye seemed to have enough strength at its command to keep him from looking at it for long. It punished him for daring to gaze upon it even for a moment, burning his eyes and leaving a red blot upon his vision for several moments after he tore his gaze away. Not content with just causing pain to those who dared a look, when he squeezed shut his eyelids, he could still see the Eye's hated glow.

He felt naked under its gaze, exposed and vulnerable, moreso than beneath the unwavering stare of the White Eye. He backed into the hollow once more, and watched the shadows slowly move across the ground. Nargratûrz chewed on the white earth, finding it cold and refreshing, though it was ineffective for curbing his growing hunger. The Yellow Eye lazily traversed the sky as though on some errand it did not wish to complete with any kind of haste.

Nargratûrz slept fitfully while the Yellow Eye reigned in the sky. It seemed an endless time passed, for the Eye's searching gaze must be meticulous. Unable to find him, it continued its search on the other side of the mountain.

The hunger he'd staved off by ignoring its gnaw at his gut could not be denied much longer, he realized, and with great caution, he crawled from his hiding place. No tales recalled the foodstuffs of Outside; anything he foraged could kill him.

Anything that _walked_ could kill him, he mused. Other than claws and teeth, he was unarmed. If anything larger than the small creatures that fell through the dead falls came by, would he prevail with such poor weaponry? Deciding he likely wouldn't, he began assessing the trees for their potential.

Apart from swords and knives, his folk knew nothing of weapons. The tunnels gave little room for ranged weapons beyond simple slingshots. A sling might bring down a _khlaatk_ _û_ or something as large as a _rothlûrkh_ , but did creatures from Outside come bigger?

As if forgotten and suddenly remembered, a gust of wind struck his back while he examined bits of tree strewn upon the ground, and he shivered. Fire he knew how to make, but feared its mark here. Surely such a thing would attract attention, likely unwanted. Yet he was colder than he'd ever been.

Reluctantly, Nargratûrz separated the longest and thickest stick he could lift from the debris and gathered bits of twigs into a small pile just outside the hollow.

Wood was terribly scarce, yet not unknown to him. Very little came through the dead falls by chance. Light in the underground was made by burning fat in pots. The fat, of course, came from his folk, for fish did not give much more than their meat. When an Uruk fell to battle or illness, all of him was put to use by the clan. The clan drew strength from the full consumption and use of a clan member.

Their enemies also served, though there was little if any thanks for their contributions.

Rubbing sticks together produced the spark he'd hoped for, and soon his carefully tended flame took hold. The familiar glow and sound were comforting, moreso than the heat. He searched the immediate area to bring more fuel for his fire.

Settling with his feet close to the warmth, he used claws and teeth to sharpen one end of the stick he'd chosen. He was nearly useless with a spear, but he had no means of procuring any other weapon that he knew of. To occupy his mind while his hands were busy, he ran through every lesson he'd had of this weapon's use. His trainer, a giant Uruk missing an eye and any sort of sympathy for raw recruits, applied a heavy hand in his teaching. It was difficult to find the lesson amongst his memories of being clouted for poor aim, clubbed for slow responses, and kicked for clumsy handling.

Nargratûrz just... did not want to fight. It was not something he was particularly good at. He still did not know _what_ he was good at. Weapon use was certainly not it.

His thoughts were so consumed in painful recollections he did not notice the approaching footfalls until they were quite close. Stiffening with alarm, he gripped his spear and looked up.

Loping toward him on four long legs was a monstrous beast, fully twice as big as a _rothlûrkh_ , its head likely reaching the Uruk's stomach in height. Covered in thick, mottled gray fur, it stopped and held its head up straight, just as surprised to see him as he was to see it. He'd never seen anything like it, and scrambled to his feet, the spear held before him in trembling hands. The beast just stared at him, tilting its head from side to side as though examining the Uruk. Large floppy ears rose and fell on the sides of its head as it picked up the rumbling sounds of Nargratûrz's breathing.

" _Ukh kraat_ ," he snarled. To emphasize his words, he jerked the spear forward threateningly. He hunched his shoulders to make his body appear even larger and broader, and bared his fangs, growling.

The creature's head jerked up and nearly tilted sideways, ears pricked. Then its long red tongue uncurled from its mouth, and the whip-like tail longer than Nargratûrz's arm began to wave back and forth uncertainly.

That this animal might be his prey did not even occur to Nargratûrz. Once the mouth opened, he saw teeth very like his own, and knew from experience of being bitten by Orcs in wild frenzied battle that he was evenly matched. Then it barked.

Nargratûrz backed away a few steps, and the beast lunged at him, barking again. But it still didn't make contact, apparently preferring to drive him backwards, dancing from side to side with a giant tongue lolling out of its mouth. The more Nargratûrz retreated, the more the beast pranced. The Uruk felt a tree solid and unyielding at his back as he ran out of room. Cornered, he forgot the weapon he held or those nature had gifted him. He stared into the large brown eyes of the beast and did the only thing he could think to do: he roared, baring his teeth in the most threatening manner possible.

Though the animal paused and cocked its head at him once more, it was far from deterred. With what Nargratûrz could only describe as a yelp, the beast vaulted toward him, rising up on its hind legs. Heavy paws landed on Nargratûrz's shoulders, knocking the spear from his numb hands; all he could see was the beast's throat as it... licked his face.

Incredibly, the beast wasn't trying to kill him at all. The Uruk stood shocked, unmoving, as the animal took layers of cave dust off his skin. Hesitantly, he pushed at its barrel chest until it dropped back to the ground. Then it pressed its head against his thigh, looking up at him with large dark eyes.

Before he could do anything else, the animal's head suddenly jerked around, ears pricked and alert. The wind carried a faint voice, and the voice called, "Darûk!"

Without a backward glance, the animal bounded off, evidently in the direction of the voice, though Nargratûrz couldn't discern distance or direction very well in the openness of Outside.

The stillness of the mountain returned, and he let his breath out slowly. It had to be a _shara_ voice he heard, and it was quite near if he could understand it. Then he blinked.

He knew the word that was called out. He had heard it too many times to count. The warriors particularly enjoyed calling him _darûk_ when to be labeled a fool would most dampen his spirit. Such had they done when he returned from his first skirmish on his back, dragged by his disgusted fellows. There had been no hope of mating once _that_ label stuck; the females were more amused by his awkward posturing than interested. No, there was no sympathy from that quarter. Though his skills in battle improved from that first disastrous failure, at least enough to see him back to clan territory with his limbs intact, he failed his first test. The first of many.

Sinking to his haunches, he leaned against the tree and stared at the sky. The roiling masses seemed thicker and darker than before, blotting out the light of the Yellow Eye. He wondered where the White Eye was; he had longed for its relative comfort after the Yellow Eye disappeared.

* * *

"Darûk!" Samantha called out the cabin door. Sighing, she ducked back in, rubbing her arms. Damned dog; she was always far too excited about romping in the snow. Maybe she caught a whiff of a hare or something. The sun was sinking in the west; Sam hoped her companion wasn't lost, though she knew it was hard to fool a hound's nose. _She'll find her way back_ , the woman thought. _And maybe she'll bring back stories, because there isn't jack shit here_.

Chuckling to herself, she sat in front of her laptop and idly clicked on the links in her news feed. It seemed that her best friend, Debbie, had a new puppy and was just discovering what not to leave lying around the floor for just _anyone_ to find. Her cousin Dale was all busted up over those ungrateful SCA people calling the cops on them for disrupting their event.

Sam snorted a quiet laugh. _Dude, when you assault an encampment dressed in barbarian furs and fangs, you're gonna piss people off._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ukh kraat = Go away  
> khlaatkû = 'long ear', what Nargratûrz's people would call a rabbit  
> rothlûrkh = 'circle pattern', what his folk would call a bobcat in reference to the spotted fur


	3. Unexpected Fallout

Subsisting on the white earth that quenched his thirst if nothing else, Nargratûrz passed a few monotonous days on the mountain, occasionally visited by the beast. Hungry as he was, he could not bring himself to slay his guest. The creature had a childlike innocence to it that he felt drawn to. It was certainly playful; throwing wads of the white earth for it to catch in its snapping jaws seemed to be its favorite game.

It was also the only living thing he'd seen, and he drew some comfort from its presence. The _shara_ voice on the wind was troublesome, and he sometimes heard it calling to the beast, but it kept its distance. He would not have known which direction to run in any case, for the voice seemed to come from several at once.

There was almost nothing to eat save the slimy sheafs of brown and yellow he found at the feet of the trees when he dug through the white earth. Elongated things with tiered blades from end to end that he found around the trees with green spines provided crunchy sustenance, but were not particularly satisfying.

In his wanderings close to the hollow, he discovered a stand of plants with hard red pebbles, each with its own black spot like a small Red Eye. Hunkering down with fascination, he turned one over and over in his hand, remembering the old stories only the most ancient Uruk wise women told.

The Red Eye was the Conqueror, he recalled. Mighty and powerful, seeking dominance over all others. The White Hand was his general. What was remembered by Nargratûrz's folk, the children of the White Hand, was that the Hand was defeated first, for his children were few and directionless. They were warriors only; they were not given mates to protect or homes to guard. They only fought, and it was not enough.

It was the Eye who had foresight. To his children were given homes and hearths, mates and young as incentive not just to fight, but to win. Where the Hand fashioned his children when needed, the Eye nurtured his over generations. Their loyalty to the Eye was unwavering, and still held. The Uruk-hai were nearly indifferent to the Hand.

Nargratûrz had always thought the war-mongering of the Eye and the Hand was unsettling. Orcs and Uruks were hunted by _shara-hai_ when the Eye and Hand were defeated. Though huddled together in vast warrens against a common enemy, they still strove against one another. He wondered if there might have been peace had their makers not demanded otherwise of their children.

Sighing, he popped the red pebble into his mouth and chewed its hard rind. His powerful jaws and strong teeth made short work of it. Perhaps if he consumed the Red Eye, he might be granted its foresight, or at the least the strength of its children. Taking a handful off the nearest bush, he settled in and ate.

* * *

Hunger drove Nargratûrz further afield, as far as a few hours from his hollow. Gradual adjustment to this new world taught him the scent of that place, allowing him to return to it. Knowing he could find his place again, he grew bolder in his wandering search for food. Strengthened by the pebbles of the Red Eye the day before, he was some distance from the hollow when he caught a whiff of something on the wind.

The cold air diminished his sense of smell a bit, but not enough to miss a scent very like red blood. It was not a scent he often encountered; only occasionally were the bottoms of the dead falls blessed with a beast from Outside, and then the meat was claimed by the chieftain. Stealth and desperate curiosity were what gave him his first taste of _aapskarn,_ for which he paid in his own blood.

Hope in his heart for the first time, Nargratûrz loped toward the scent, gripping his crude spear with both hands. He was rewarded with a stronger odor as he neared; it called to mind that long-ago feast of _khlaatk_ _û,_ the _aapskarn_ fresh and warm still when he found it. He was still among the females then, not yet old enough to be apprenticed in a trade or taught the sword. The Orcs and Uruk-hai never left their caves; dead falls were the only means of receiving _aapskarn_ , and only by chance. The dead falls were essentially long, narrow chutes dug to the surface by long-dead ancestors and cleverly disguised. They were not big enough for anything as large as an Orc to pass through, but a small animal like a _khlaatk_ _û_ or _buzthak_ could easily fall in if they weren't paying attention.

He was caught in something similar for the same reason when the ground suddenly disappeared beneath his feet. Lurching forward, he tumbled down a steep embankment, his spear flying out of his hands. When he rolled to a stop, he found he'd landed only a few yards away from a pack of creatures that looked very like his visitor, feasting on the carcass of a small animal. Too little to share among so many, if the looks they gave the intruder were any judge.

The Uruk's quick assessment of their eyes and curling lips told him they were not the same creatures. Where his visitor's eyes were warm and friendly, these beasts' were not. They were predatory eyes, and were not interested in play. Slowly rising to his feet, he backed away. Nargratûrz couldn't see where his spear landed, and though he was abysmal with its handling, he would have felt far braver with it in his hands.

The largest of them growled a warning and advanced a few wary steps. The others abandoned the glistening, bloody pile of bones and flesh and looked at the Uruk as if he were a much more promising option.

Nargratûrz spun and scrambled up the embankment. Behind him, the leader of the pack let out a long, high-pitched howl, then the beasts were at his heels.

* * *

Frustrated from being cooped up for days with no relief in sight, Sam was out hiking not far away. She heard the howling and felt a frisson of fear grip her. Wasn't this always how the movie warned the hero that a shit storm was about to blow his way? Beside her, the wolfhound lifted her head, ears pricked toward the sound, then started trotting in that direction.

"Darûk," Sam said warningly, "you know you don't want to play with a pack of wolves, right?"

As expected, the wolfhound ignored her and increased her speed to a trot. Sighing with resignation, Sam followed, fingering the gun she always wore at her side out here. You never knew who, or what, you'd run into, and she'd seen too many horror stories on the news to be incautious.

Darûk suddenly halted, nose in the air, and bolted through the underbrush. Alarmed, Sam ran after her. Coming out in a dense copse of trees, she followed the bounding hound up a rise. When she reached the top, something big and solid as a wall hit her like a truck. Its momentum stopped her in her tracks, carrying them both back down the slope, rolling and tumbling to land at the bottom in a pile of wet leaves and twigs. The figure landed on top of her with tremendous force, emptying her lungs in an audible _whoosh_. She couldn't even gasp for breath; it must have weighed hundreds of pounds, pressing down on her and immobilized by the fall.

It was a man, near as she could tell. His face was buried in the snow over her shoulder, but weight and overall shape told her that much at least. To Sam's surprise, Darûk was licking the man's face, wagging her tail in rapture. Pushing against his leather-covered shoulders, she struggled to get out from under him. After a couple of moments, he stiffened and shot off her like he'd been electrified. But their legs were tangled, and he was graceless in escaping her. He ended up crab-crawling across the ground until he slammed backwards into a tree. Now she saw his face, and she gasped in shock.

Taking as deep a breath as her body allowed, she scowled at him. Standing up, she whipped her knit cap off, advanced on him, and beat him soundly over the head and shoulders with it.

"Stupid, fucking LARPers!" she shouted as he tried to ward off the blows with upraised arms. "I get no peace from you idiots!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aapskarn = 'red meat'  
> buzthak = 'stripe face,' what Nargratûrz's folk call a badger


	4. What the Hell IS That?

For the span of a heartbeat, Nargratûrz was frozen in shock. Was _this_ what a _shara_ looked like? He could barely breathe. It had a dark, bulky upper body, incongruously thin legs, and a deathly pale, oddly smooth face. Its expression was nearly as surprised as his must be. Then it rose to its feet and glowered menacingly. Advancing, it removed what must be a covering from its head and proceeded to strike him repeatedly with it, shouting things he didn't understand.

The blows didn't harm him in the least, yet instincts brought his arms up protectively. Then the beast at her side growled threateningly, and he lowered his arms, pricking his ears.

Abandoning her annoyed assault on the stupid man, Sam whirled and saw the pack standing at the top of the rise.

"Nice going, _asshole_ ," she snarled, kicking his shin hard. He yelped and scuttled back out of range.

Pissed off and not at all in the mood for a tussle with wolves, she drew her pistol and shot the lead wolf right between the eyes. The crack of the shot echoed through the chill air for several seconds. The remaining wolves thought better of their dinner plans and turned tail.

Sam holstered the weapon and gave the guy a whithering look. Her expression changed when she realized he was afraid. Not surprised by her sudden appearance, not relieved that she had saved his worthless hide from a wolf attack, but actually _terrified_. Frowning, she crouched down and really looked at him.

He was shaking like a leaf and gasping for breath. He seemed to be trying desperately to pass through the tree behind him, as though to escape her. His eyes were wide open and the orangey-yellow contacts the idiot wore made his eyes appear bloodshot. Unlike her cousin and his retarded friends, he wasn't wearing the typical mix of thickly layered leather and metal armor they favored when they suited up and pretended to be Orcs. This stupid guy was only wearing a thin shell of worn hides; short-sleeved shirt and knee-length pants. Even more ragged scraps were wrapped about his feet and had clearly seen better days. He looked like he was scared to death _and_ freezing his ass off. Latex body suit nothwithstanding.

"Hey," she said, trying to calm him, "you okay?" He made no answer, just stared at her with the same panicky incomprehension. As though he didn't understand a word she said.

Glancing down at his leg, she realized the snow was darkening with a sticky black fluid. Evidently, a few of the wolves tagged him in the leg. Shaking her head, she rose. It was impossible to tell what damage was done with his ridiculous body suit on.

"Your blood pack's busted, dude," she commented. "You guys really go for realism, don't you?" Sighing, Sam offered him a hand up. "I know I'll regret this, but you need to be checked out. My cabin's not far. Come on."

He just sat there, clearly not understanding her intentions. It didn't help that Darûk kept licking his face. The poor bastard was too shell-shocked to push the dog away.

Rolling her eyes, she reached down, grabbed his muscular arm, and hauled him to his feet. Now that he was standing, he was at least six and a half feet tall, perhaps a foot taller than her. Unperturbed, she pushed him in the direction of her cabin. He'd seen her gun; only an idiot would misbehave with _that_ threat on the table.

Glancing behind, she scowled. "The _least_ you could do is drop character for a minute, you big dumbass," she grouched as she led the way. "And if you can't get that latex off your legs in a timely fashion, I won't hesitate to cut it off." Looking back to check his reaction, she noted his slack-jawed expression, revealing some really god-awfully fake-looking jagged fangs. She nodded with satisfaction. "Yep, don't care how much you paid for it or how long it took you to get it just right. You piss with wolves, you pay the price."

As the initial fear of seeing a _shara_ up close diminished, the Uruk began to calm a little. The dancing beast seemed quite at its ease, even somewhat pleased that he was accompanying its master. Yet he could not still the hard beating in his chest. The _shara_ wielded strong, and incredibly loud, death magic. He must do _nothing_ to displease it. The _shara_ seemed to want him to accompany it, so he would obey.

Still, Nargratûrz was completely flummoxed by the _shara_ 's behavior. It didn't seem surprised to see him, yet he was fairly certain no Orcs had been exiled from his or any other nearby clan for a century or more. The stream of words coming from it filled the silence, but he had no idea what it was saying.

" _Lat honuz-ik uruk?_ " he asked hesitantly when it took a breath. [You have seen orcs before?]

"Knock off the grunty Orc-talk, jerk," Sam snapped. "I'm not in the mood."

The _shara's_ sharp tone of voice was more effective than words. He shut up.

Minutes later, they reached the small cabin her uncle owned. It was pretty nondescript from the outside, an impression unchanged by going inside, although the man's hunting trophies could be found here and there. It was utilitarian at best, unluxurious at worst, but it had what Sam needed: isolation from the world's distractions, and an internet connection when you wanted them back.

Nargratûrz had never seen anything like it before, and stopped in his tracks. The white earth clung to it, and sharp translucent crystals hunt from it. A pile of stones at the top released smoke into the frigid air. Noticing his paralyzed state, she reached back and grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him forward.

"It's colder than a witch's _tit_ , moron!" she barked, dragging him up to the doorstep. Grumbling under her breath, she stuck a finger between her teeth and yanked off her glove, then fumbled the keys from her jacket pocket.

When the door opened, a wave of heat flowed out, striking Nargratûrz's chest and face. It wasn't as hot as a furnace, but comforting as a cooking fire. He blinked and stared through the doorway, uncertain. The strange _shara_ made his decision for him, hauling him in by the arm.

Once the door was closed, the heat of the place enveloped him and he sighed with relief before he could check it. Losing track of the _shara_ , his eyes wandered about this place in wonder. The heads of beasts he didn't recognize were mounted upon the walls. To his relief, none looked like his kind. None of the furnishings had a like counterpart in his experience, and he was at a loss to define them.

But the colors were stunning. On the floor, on the walls, on the strange objects large and small... It was a riot of different shades and patterns that enthralled and amazed him, and he slowly turned, drinking it in. In the wall opposite the door was an alcove in which a weak fire crackled, the wealth of wood charred inside.

Coming back around, he caught sight of the _shara_... and froze. Apparently it wasn't nearly as bulky as he'd thought, for quite suddenly it was not only thin and lithe, but its coverings were a completely different color. Looking around, he found the dark blue thing it wore before, now hanging from a hook on the wall. He looked back at the _shara_ curiously. It dawned on him that, based on its familiar shape, this was actually a _shar_ _ **lob**_.

She _glared_ at him. He wasn't sure what he'd done, but assumed the appropriate chastened look regardless.

"Sit," the _sharlob_ snapped, pointing at one of the large, unidentifiable objects in the middle of the floor. It stood in front of the fire, and had the look of rounded softness about it. He had no idea what she said, though, and just shook his head.

" _Nar srinkhsha-izg_ ," he said helplessly. [I don't understand.]

"What did I say?" Sam snapped angrily, and the lumbering moron flinched. "No Orc-talk! Now sit the hell _down!_ " Stepping up to him, she shoved him backwards. "Man!"

He staggered as the backs of his knees hit the thing, and he sat heavily. The thing had a springy give to it that was unexpected, and he almost leaped off again, fearing he would continue sinking and the thing would swallow him up. Quickly, though, it seeemed to even out and support his weight. He cautiously settled. The _sharlob_ placed him there; it was clearly where she wanted him to be. It was best never to question the wishes of a female, no matter whether she was Uruk or _sharlob_.

Sam went to the kitchen area and fetched a pair of long scissors and a first aid kit. She barely acknowledged his cringing when she neared. Kneeling in front of him, she cut through the leather, opening the left legging. His foot coverings were filthy and falling off; she barely wished to acknowledge them as shoes. Peeling the one off his left foot, she looked for a seam or cuff for the body suit he must be wearing. There should at least be a separate pull-on foot covering, else why would he let his shoe-things be so damn useless for protecting his feet? There was no separation between the feet and the main suit, though.

"I'll give you this," she allowed, "this is one hell of a good suit you've got on. Doesn't feel at all like latex." His foot was odd as well; it was large like one would expect of someone so tall, but the nails were more like claws. Taking the scissors, she tried to pierce the fleshlike covering to expose the bite wound.

His reaction was abrupt and loud. Jerking his leg out of her hands, he vaulted over the back of the couch away from her. Racing for the door, he tried to rip it open, but it wouldn't give, and in his panic he yanked and pulled as though it were locked.

Sam was completely baffled. Rising, she cocked her head to look at him again. Why on earth was he so freaked out by everything? She wondered if he was emotionally disturbed or something. You know, worse than her cousin's stupid ass friends generally were anyway. And another thing, if he was one of Dale's LARPing buddies, why didn't he recognize her? Granted, she didn't really hang out with them much, but when she went over to the house to visit her nieces and nephew, or chat up Andrea about something, they were often in the den swapping Orc stories, discussing Orc culture, scratching Orc itches, and other silly Orcish things. Not a one of them hadn't flirted with her at one time or another, and could all boast at least one patented Samantha rebuff each.

 _This_ one acted like he was from another _planet_ , not just another LARP group.

Glancing over his shoulder, Nargratûrz saw her take a step toward him, eyes narrowed suspiciously, sharp blade in her hands. Flattening himself against the door, he roared at her like a cornered, wounded animal, bestial teeth bared.

That brought Sam up short. "Hey," she said nervously, "that was really good. Sounded just like a lion."

It was beginning to dawn on her, watching his chest heaving, and seeing a mix of anger, pain, and fear in his strange golden eyes, that maybe he wasn't who she _thought_ he was. Maybe not even _what_ she thought.

Moving closer, she focused on his face. A heavy brow ridge cast a dark shadow over his eyes, yet they glittered in the firelight. He had a rather blunt nose; his nostrils flared, and a growling, grunting sound came from him with each breath. The corners of his mouth were turned down, lips slightly parted. Those sharp, jagged teeth she'd thought were fake now seemed simply unbrushed. There were particularly large incisors on the bottom jaw that reminded her of Darûk's, in a very unsettling way. His bodysuit was a dark olive color, yet not as dark as her cousin's LARPing friends seemed to prefer.

Backing away, she slowly pulled out her cell phone. Glancing between him and the phone, she punched in her cousin's number.

_Your dime._

"Hi, Dale," she said shakily.

_Sam? Thought you were on vacation._

"Yeah, I'm up at your dad's cabin." The strange... man watched her curiously.

_Really? What for?_

"Just, you know, trying to find my muse. I don't think he came up here. Listen, I've got a bit of a problem. Take a look at this." Turning the phone, she snapped a picture of the...guy. The flash startled him, and his eyes widened again. Sending the picture, she put the phone back to her ear. "Did you get that?

_Yeah. Uh... nice makeup. Not how I'd do it, but..._

"Yes, very good makeup, sure, except I don't think it's makeup." Briefly, she explained her meeting with the creature, and his reaction to her attempt at removing his body suit. "I don't know for sure, but he just... doesn't act like a guy in a costume. He doesn't seem to know what I'm saying. He's only said a couple of things, and he sounded like one of your stupid friends trying to talk dirty to me in that language you guys are always using. You _really_ need to get up here and...and do something," she ended lamely.

_Have you looked at the radar? I am **not** going all the way up there with that front coming in just because you found some jerk in the woods._

"You're kidding," she said flatly. Turning away from the stranger, she continued, "There's no TV up here, remember? Just dead animal heads on the walls..."

_Didn't you bring your computer? I thought you never left home without that thing._

"Sure, I brought my computer, but I don't spend all my waking hours on the god damned weather channel site!"

_Well, doofus, there's a blizzard coming fast and furious. The roads will be shutting down in a matter of hours._

"Okay, if you're going to be a huge puss about a little snow, then stay home. I'll sort it out myself." Squatting in front of the fire, she absently prodded it with a poker.

_A little snow? They're predicting a foot tonight alone!_

"God, I thought you'd be all over this."

_Okay, **normally** I would, but if I go up there, it'll be the both of us snowed in and needing Marty to come pull our asses out of a snow drift. _

"Make that the _three_ of us. I don't think this guy is going anywhere either. Jesus, Dale! I don't want to be stuck up here with a guy who thinks he's an Orc! That's more _your_ thing, not mine!" She glanced nervously at the guy. He'd dropped to his haunches, leaning against the door, and was still watching her curiously.

_Well, has he made any moves on you? Threatened you at all?_

"No," she said slowly. "But... he makes me nervous. He keeps... _looking_ at me. Like he's never seen a girl before. Not... quite like he's hoping to score, but... a little too curious for comfort, you know what I mean?"

_All right. Son of a bitch. Okay, I'll come. Andrea's gonna have my balls for this. It'll take me hours, you know. We had an ice storm down here this afternoon. I don't think it got up as far as you are, but we got nailed something harsh. Ah, FUCK!_

"What? What's wrong?"

_Fucking school thing. Deena's in some stupid-ass play. 'Arsenic and Old Lace.' I'm guessing she's the arsenic._

"You'd better not tell her that," Sam warned, stifling a giggle.

_Okay, tonight's out. Can you survive one night? I'll get going in the morning first thing._

"Yeah, I think I can make it. I had to shoot a god damn wolf. Scared the bejesus out of him. I suspect he'll keep his hands to himself."

Nargratûrz watched her move around the room, talking in fits and starts as if she were in a conversation with someone he couldn't see. Slowly, calm began to return to him. She only occasionally glanced in his direction, but otherwise didn't approach him. At least she wasn't trying to stab him with the strange blade again.

The _sharlob's_ voice was softer than an Uruk's, even a female's. And her hair was silky, falling in dark waves the color of old leather about her shoulders. Orcs and Uruks were almost universally black-haired, if they had hair at all. He wondered if it would be as supple and smooth as leather if he touched it.

Shaking his head to clear it of such thoughts, he reminded himself that she was a _sharlob_. If this were an Uruk female, she'd let him know if he was wanted or not. Her pacing frequently put her back to him, a certain sign among his folk that he wasn't worthy of attention. Not from a fellow warrior, and certainly not from a female.

He bowed his head. Even being in this warm place was little better than the hollow under the tree. He didn't understand the _sharlob's_ speech, didn't know her world, and hunger still gnawed his insides.


	5. Attempts at Communication

Pocketing her cell phone, Sam regarded her... guest. He was sitting with his back against the door, knees up and arms resting on them. He sort of had a hang-dog look about him, kind of world-weary. And _so_ not normal. Her hand went to the pistol grip for reassurance.

Whatever his weird personal issues, she'd nicked him with the scissors trying to cut the suit off. Like he needed more trauma. Sighing, she picked up the first aid kit again and cautiously approached him.

"Look, uh, let's try this again, okay?" she said nervously. "No scissors this time. I'll just... uh... do the best I can."

His yellow eyes darted up when she spoke and he looked at her askance, clearly distrusting. His hands went to the floor and he pressed harder into the door. He looked like he was preparing to spring aside if she went for him again. She slowly knelt in front of him and continued speaking in a calm, reassuring voice.

"It's all right, I won't hurt you," she soothed. "Just let me have another look. Take it easy."

He trembled slightly, and flinched when her hand touched his injured leg, but he didn't pull back. She watched his face, his eyes focused on her and full of suspicion, then they darted up to something past her shoulder and he nearly shot backwards through the door. A startled bark of shock ripped from his throat.

Sam whirled to see what frightened him, but there was nothing there. Not even a dead animal head, which was strange because all the walls of this cabin had at least two. Frowning, she scanned the area he must have been looking at but couldn't see anything that might have shocked _anyone_. Darûk wasn't even on that side of the cabin. Turning back to him, she froze.

He was shaking hard, eyes wide, brow furrowed in clear confusion. His breath came in gasps as he blinked rapidly and kept staring over her shoulder. If he'd shown any signs of normal behavior before, she would have rolled her eyes and swatted him for trying to scare her, but he looked quite like he'd seen a ghost.

Standing, Sam went to where he was looking. The only thing there was the refrigerator and the kitchen counters. Granted, there was a shadowy section the central lighting didn't penetrate all that well, but surely he wasn't freaking out over _that_. _There wasn't_ _anything_ _there_.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she murmured as she went back to him. His panicked hyperventillation seemed to be subsiding, and the shivering slowed.

It was difficult for Nargratûrz to regain his composure. He'd been focused on her when he saw _him_. He thought his heart might stop beating. _I killed you!_ his thoughts roared, but no words came from his suddenly dry mouth. Standing by the white thing, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face, was Grishosh. So real... he even bore the wounds Nargratûrz gave; his midsection was ripped open, spilling several feet of gut from the gaping wound. Black blood flowed down the front of his body, down his legs, pooling on the floor...

Then he was gone. Nargratûrz had never seen a _g_ _û_ _l_ before, but he'd heard stories. Seeing one now unsettled him completely. It took him several moments to realize the _sharlob_ was looking at him with her forehead bunched. He took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down. Maybe it was his imagination. By the Hand, let it be nothing it all!

"Okay, that was weird," Sam murmured, watching as he gradually settled. Once more going to his leg, she carefully turned it so she could see his calf. He grunted slightly and his eyes shifted to her again. She tried to ignore him as she gently prodded the site of his wound.

 _Damn goo pack_ , she thought to herself with annoyance. Every time she pressed the area, that black shit oozed out. Since nothing red was mixed with it, she had to assume he wasn't _very_ badly injured. Likely the tough covering he had on protected him. She just did _not_ want to accept that this could be his actual skin, because if it was, that black shit could only be blood. Deciding there wasn't anything for her to do here, she let him go. She stood and returned to the kitchenette, putting the first aid kit away.

Unsure what he might want to eat, she rummaged in the fridge. On the bottom shelf, happily defrosted now, was the steak she'd planned on grilling for her dinner. She glanced over her shoulder at the man and decided those gaunt cheeks and sunken belly were more in need of a juicy Porterhouse than she was, and lifted the plate out. When she approached him with it, his eyes nearly popped out of his skull and his mouth hung open. A thin rivulet of saliva slid out the corner of his mouth and dangled for a moment.

"Guess you're pretty hungry, huh?" she said with a smile. "How do you want this cooked? Medium or ra-"

With alarming speed, the man lurched forward and snatched the meat off the plate with his clawed hands. She hadn't even noticed the claws, she realized, and now she was too shocked by what he was doing _now_ to dwell on them.

He literally dove his face into the meat and tore off hunks as easily as if it were bread. If those were fake fangs, they were the best made teeth she'd ever seen. His hands were shaking and his eyes were closed. His expression was one of sheer bliss. Sam gaped at him as he consumed bite after bite with only a cursory effort at chewing. The meat's juices poured from his mouth and ran down the front of his leather jerkin.

Sam backed away, repulsed. That settled it for her; this was not a man. Not even Dale's batshit friends were so dedicated to their craft they would eat raw meat. However, her initial revulsion was gradually replaced with something akin to guarded sympathy as she watched him tear into the steak as if he hadn't eaten in days. His growling breaths changed tone, and now he _purred_ , sounding almost enraptured.

Finding herself backed against the sofa, Sam slowly sat, then drew her knees up and wedged herself into a corner. Darûk, attracted by the scent no doubt, trotted up to the... whatever he was, and gave him a hopeful look. Though he paused and grunted what sounded like a warning, he made no other aggressive move toward the dog. Darûk took the hint and slumped back to the hearth rug to lie down.

The relative quiet was interrupted by a chirping sound from her laptop, and she jumped a little. Sam eased off the couch, too afraid of this guy now to make any sudden moves, and slid into the desk chair. A quick peek at her inbox told her Dale had sent her an email. Darting quick looks at the... whatever, she read her cousin's message.

_Just thinking you might need these if he's got some screw loose and only wants to speak Orcish. First file's a dictionary, second's a grammar thingy. I hope he doesn't pull any Orc moves on you. Keep the gun handy._

_Dale_

Her brow furrowed. 'Orc moves'? What the hell did _that_ mean? she wondered. Deciding she'd rather not know, she plugged in her portable printer and printed out the files.

Looking over the dictionary, she frowned. She'd done her college-required sentence of foreign language courses, focusing on French because it was the soft option and all her friends were doing it. This language bore absolutely no resemblance to French, or any Latin-based language she knew of.

" _Aanash_?" she murmured, skimming down the list of words and meanings. "What the fuck? _Bolkat_?"

Nargratûrz paused in the middle of licking his fingers clean and jerked his head up. He scrambled to his feet and rushed over to the _sharlob_.

" _Pukhlat ghashanu-izub_!" he said eagerly, barely stopping himself before bowling her over. [You speak my words!] Sam nearly hit the wall in her attempt to avoid a collision. Darûk leaped to her feet and raised her hackles, growling at the... whatever guy.

"Whoa, there," Sam warned, holding up her free hand while the other held the papers to her chest. "You just get your ass back a few feet, all right?"

Breathing heavily, his eyes alight and body quivering, he obeyed her gesture and took a few steps back.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Sam edged toward the couch. Having this guy's undivided attention did not put her particularly at ease. "Let's have a seat, okay? Get comfortable or something. This'll take awhile, I think."

Sam settled herself on the couch. She swallowed hard and forced herself to beckon him over. He managed to restrain his undeniable excitement, and perched on the other end of the couch.

Poring over the printouts, she formulated a few phrases to try out. It was a rather simple language, she realized. Nothing particularly complicated with regards to syntax and sentence structure. No weirdly conjugated verbs like English was rife with. Feeling a little more confident, she turned to him and gave it her best shot.

" _Mol lat bugduz_ _?_ " [How are you called?]

He looked like a comfortable wave of heat had just washed over him. With the closed eyes and the blissful smile, she wondered if hearing his own language again had as satisfying an effect as that steak did. Recovering himself, he said in a guttural voice, "Nargratûrz."

Forcing herself to smile, she replied, _"Bugduz_ _ _-izg__ Sam." [I am called Sam.] Checking her list, she ventured, " _Kul-lat throquûrz dâl_?" [Are you still hungry?]

Regardless that the meat wasn't nearly enough to assuage so many days on such spare rations, Nargratûrz didn't want this conversation to end, much less pause long enough to feed him more. He shook his head. " _Nar. Kul-izg bârzuga._ " Grinning, he added, "Sam." [No. I am finished.]

Sam had to really work at it to smile back. All those sharp teeth, especially with such a recent display of their sharpness, were not very comforting to see.

Not bothering to translate what he just said – a negative headshake was enough for her – she dove back into the word list.

" _Kul-lat Uruk_?" she asked in a quiet, uncertain voice. [Are you an Orc?]

He looked startled by the question. Not 'what makes you think I am' sort of indignant startlement; more like 'isn't it obvious?'

Nodding, he said, " _Akh. Uruk_." He pressed his hand to his chest.

"And that would make me...," she muttered, flipping through the pages, " _sharlob_." She glanced at him; he grinned and nodded again. Asking anything more complicated would entail a good deal more energy than she had left at the moment. Stifling a yawn, she decided to wait for her numb nuts cousin to come, since he could actually speak this language.

A slightly distressed look stole across Nargratûrz's face, and he said almost sheepishly, " _Amal glu-izg_?" With a sigh, Sam hunted through the dictionary.

When she figured it out, her cheeks darkened ten shades, she was sure. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry," she apologized, and took him to the little bathroom. Flipping on the light, she pulled him inside and showed him the toilet. "You, uh... _glu_ there," she said awkwardly.

In all honesty, the strange seat wasn't terribly different in concept from the various holes found or specifically dug for the purpose in his clan's holdings. None had water in them, though. But as before, if the _sharlob_ wanted him to use this thing, then he would obey. This was her domain, after all. He untied the laces of his breeches and set about the task of relieving the pressure he'd endured for what seemed like hours.

Sam retreated to minimum safe distance once he started undoing his fly. Curiosity might have gotten the better of her at any other time, but for now... Best to keep herself aloof until Dale showed up. But as she stepped back behind him, she took a good long look at his body. He wasn't unnattractive, she had to admit. Sure, his face was... uh... unusual, but in spite of a period of near starvation, he was still built like a brick shithouse. She had to remind herself that he tore apart a Porterhouse with claws and teeth sharp enough to give Darûk a run for her money.

When he finished, she led him back to the couch and urged him to sit down again. " _Lat dhûl tul_ ," she informed him once she'd consulted the word list again. [You sleep here.]

His brow furrowed with disappointment, but he nodded without voicing any protest. Sam almost went back to the dictionary to figure out how to tell him he'd better suck it up and sleep on the couch because her bed was off-fucking-limits, but she restrained herself.

Standing up, she fetched an extra blanket and pillow from the linen cabinet and helped him settle in. She used gestures to indicate he should lie down, which he complied with, then she draped the blanket over him and went around turning off lamps. Too tired herself to be worried about changing out of her clothes, she burrowed under the comforter on the big bed in the corner.

As the cabin gradually darkened with each light she touched, Nargratûrz lay still on the soft couch and watched the flames in the fireplace. The stories he recalled about _shara-hai_ and Orcs typically described violent encounters. The most common beginning to such tales was, " _Brîz khlaaruzat aaraarshi._ " [The horns were heard at dawn.] What followed was invariably a battle that left few survivors, or more often none at all.

He wondered if the tales were lies, or if such a long time had passed since his folk walked Outside that the _shara-hai_ had forgotten they were enemies. Nargratûrz was relieved in either case. He was warm for the first time in days. The bitter wind was no longer gnawing his hide. His belly was full. Whatever this _sharlob_ , Sam, wished of him, he would give.

Something blew against the window pane, startling him. Glancing over, he saw a tree branch waving its spindly fingers Outside. Another gust of wind threw a spray of black against the glass, and Nargratûrz froze. It seemed to be blood, the way it slowly dripped down the glass pane in rivers. His breath quickened as the branch formed into a clawed, black hand, and idly scraped at the window.

Terrified, he squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, then slowly cracked them open again. The branch had returned, and only the bluish white earth could be seen blowing past the window.

 _What is happening to me?_ he worried. These things he was seeing seemed so real, yet did not stay. The beast, Darûk, was sleeping peacefully in front of the fire as though nothing were amiss. The _sharlob_ was also asleep in her bedding, unaffected by his visions. They could _not_ be real.

It was a long time before Nargratûrz succumbed to fatigue and let sleep take him.


	6. No, Really, He's an ORC

By morning, the blizzard was in full force, shutting down all mountain roads, especially those which wound their way to the cabin. Sam scowled as the wolfhound leaped gazelle-like around the drifts and snapped at the whirling snow. Closing the door, she turned and nearly ran into the Orc, who had somehow gotten off the couch and padded up behind her without making a sound. He, too, had seen out the door, though his expression was more along the lines of horrified than inconvenienced.

Skirting him, she fetched the papers. Time for more chatting, she thought. Settling on the couch, she crossed her legs and began hunting.

Nargratûrz followed her to the thing she was sitting on and gingerly lowered himself onto the soft cushion again. It didn't sink as much as before, but something inside it squeaked and groaned.

"Okay," Sam muttered under her breath, "what the hell am I supposed to say to you?" She scanned the pages, trying to find something inspirational. "How about this? _Mol Uruk-hai turu slaiat fil-ishi?_ " [How many Orcs live in the cave?]

She'd thought that was an innocuous enough question, but it seemed to put him on alert. He stiffened and darted a suspicious look at her. _Fuck_ , she thought, and hurriedly tried to find a way to explain...

"Hold on a sec," she said, holding up a hand as she scanned and hunted. " _Khl-izg dhurz nar iist-izg. Uruk-hai fauthuzut kû. Honat ash Uruk kul bak._ " [I ask because I don't know. Orcs have been hidden a long time. To see one Orc is a shock.]

At first he was wary that the _sharlob_ was interested in matters of a military nature – guaging their strengths and weaknesses – but then a completely different thought came to him, one that had often plagued him and for which there never seemed to be a satisfactory answer.

" _Mat latu ikhuz-izishu fauthat? Mal krampuz-izgu?_ " he asked, his head tilted to the side and his brow furrowed. [Why did you force us to hide? What did we do?]

Sam blinked stupidly at him for a moment, then furrowed her brow and searched through the words for _anything_ that looked like it was spelled the way he pronounced it. "Dammit," she swore. Sagging, she shook her head. "Dude, your diction sucks. I have no idea what you just said."

He waited patiently, but she seemed frustrated. Nargratûrz didn't know how else he could ask. Were these things she looked at... something he'd never seen before, like nearly everything else... did they tell her his words? Why could she not understand him, then?

Rallying her forces, Sam held up a finger for him to wait and started formulating a sentence. This was absolutely ridiculous of her cousin, thinking she could shit fluency in a matter of minutes. Maybe he thought the guy would give up the act out of frustration over her lousy grasp of the language. Not really gonna happen when the guy isn't a guy, and he's not acting.

It took her several minutes, but she managed to come up with a satisfactory 'intro' to the way things were going to go down. Taking a deep breath, she dived in.

" _Nar iist-izg mal lat ghashn, agh ta nar kulat srinkhshaat uludhu khlaarat. Shaûk-izub* skaatubat zaarsh. Ta iist pukhal-lab. Ta skaatat-zi, pukhl ghashan gaz agh pukhl fûsh zatal kul-izg srinkhshat-lab._ " [I don't know what you are saying, and it's not easy to understand by listening. My friend* is coming today. He knows your language. Until he comes, speak small words and speak slowly so I can understand you.]

Nargratûrz bristled slightly and looked away, a frown on his face. It was strange that he should feel unsettled by her mention of a mate. There were ancient tales of Uruk-hai mating with _sharlob_ , but none alive knew if they were true. The Uruk females had become so like the males – none of them bore any resemblance to _this_ female, that was certain – that Nargratûrz always doubted there was any connection between their races. He'd assumed the tales were important for their _meaning,_ not their truth. Yet he felt... something... a draw... an attraction to the _sharlob_. As though it were natural for him to consider her for mating, rather than reject her as an enemy.

Which made the realization that she'd been claimed rather disappointing.

The uncomfortable silence was broken by the sound of loudly shattering glass. The Orc jumped about a foot and his widened eyes darted about in a panic. Sam snorted with amusement and went to fetch her cell phone. The caller ID flashed up Dale's name, and she smirked.

"Well look at you, all up and at'em before the paper boy's even half way through his rounds," she chirped sarcastically. "I hope to hell you're warming up the truck right about now."

_Very funny. I'm on my second cup. Do **not** piss me off._

"No, right, gotta wait for the third or fourth," she replied.

_So I take it he didn't do anything stupid last night?_

"If by 'stupid' you mean provocative enough to make me shoot him between the eyes, no," she replied. "I put him on the couch, and that's where he stayed. Perfect gentleman."

_Christ, now I **know** he's not an Orc._

"Okay, level with me," she snapped. "What are these 'Orc moves' you mentioned in your email, huh? What was I supposed to be worried about?"

_Come on. Orcs are the bad guys in every story. They're like the worst monster ever or something. Ruthless killers, likely rapists, and on top of that, they **eat** us._

"And... this is why you and your dateless friends dress up like them once a month and prance around the woods waving swords at each other?" Sam asked archly. "To make damn sure your friends _remain_ dateless? Good plan. You should publish that. Right up there with _The Secret_. Sell a bazillion copies."

_No! For fuck's sake, Sam._

"I'm _sorry_ ," she said. "Color me a whole bunch _more_ nervous than I was before you called. How about you get your ass up here double time, huh? And do you think you could bring a change of clothes or two for this guy? He's wearing dead animal skins that look like he got them out of a museum."

_Sure, sure. Will my stuff fit him?_

"I'm pretty sure. He's, uh... about your height," she said, scrutinizing the Orc and taking an educated guess. "Oh, and he's an Orc."

_Right. There's no such thing, Sam. Is he still spouting that shit at you?_

"No, Dale, I mean _he's an Orc_. I showed him some raw meat and he about took my hand off. He ate it _raw_ , dammit," she told him, still incredulous. "I don't think even your buddy, Mal, would've done that, and he's the _most_ fucked up of all your friends."

_Holy crap. Are you serious?_

"Yes, Dale," she said, laughing a little, "Mal is seriously fucked up. You should really keep an eye on him."

_No! I mean the meat thing. That crazy mother fucker ate a slab of raw meat? Seriously?_

" _Yes_ , he did. Claws and teeth and blood and yuck and I'm not giving you any more details; I haven't had breakfast yet, and the thought of it's making me queasy." She took a deep breath and fanned herself for a moment.

_Claws... and teeth? Damn. Okay, if he's **really** an Orc, ask him about Elves._

"What, _now_? Sweet Jesus, why don't you haul your ass up here and ask him yourself? Look, I am having a shit time of it here, trying to figure out what he's saying and translate it from your dictionary. His voice sounds like a chain smoking bear with a hang over."

_Wow... really?_

"Yeah, _really_ ," she snapped sarcastically. "You think I'm making this up?"

_I thought you might be... or he was yanking your chain or something... anything but a real, honest-to-god **Orc**. Where the hell did he come from?_

"Underground, in a cave, up a tree, another planet, _I don't know_ ," Sam growled, losing her patience. "You can get the whole scoop _when you get here_. Which, I _hope,_ will be fucking _soon_."

_Okay, okay! Just let me pack some things. I'm guessing I'll be there a few days until the plows make it up there, right?_

Sagging with relief, she nodded. "Likely. I looked out this morning and it's like a winter wonderland for sadistic little snowmen. Be sure to bring your long johns."

_Sure, mom. Should I bring my fuzzy slippers, too?_

"Oh goody, a sleep-over!" Sam crowed mockingly. "I'm fresh out of popcorn and graham crackers. Could you grab some marshmallows too?"

_Good bye, Sam. I'll see you in... a bunch of hours._

Sobering, she replied, "Be careful, okay?"

_Will do. Take care._

Sam hung up the cell and tapped it against her lips thoughtfully for a moment. Her eyes slid over to Nargratûrz, staring at the fireplace. _He probably thinks I'm a crazy person, talking to myself_ , she mused. Pointing at the phone, she said, " _Shaûk-izub_." Then she shrugged and offered a wan smile, hoping he wouldn't ask for a more detailed description. That would take days.

Happily, he was ignoring her. She wondered absently if his people had any kind of primitive concept of magic, and if anything that looked like it made him ill at ease. Deciding she was too hungry to care, Sam headed for the little kitchenette and rummaged around for something to make for breakfast.

That the _sharlob_ talked to a small object in her hand was not as disconcerting as the faces Nargratûrz was seeing in the dancing flames in the fireplace. He sat perfectly still, trying not to let himself tremble too much. Perhaps looking away would relieve him from having to _see_ them, but he couldn't trust it. What if those angry, flame-enveloped faces came _out_ of the fire?

Recalling the hand at the window, he closed his eyes firmly and waited a few seconds, then opened them. The fire held no leering faces any longer. It was simply fire. His brow furrowed with worry. What was happening to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word shaûk translates in Land of Shadows Black Speech as 'companion.' Because there is no word for 'mate' in this constructed language, I and a few others have adopted shaûk for that purpose. Here, Sam is using it in the wrong sense, and thus gives Nargratûrz an incorrect impression of her relationship to Dale. Bummer.


	7. Bad Things Happen to Good Orcs

"Well, dammit," Sam muttered as she buttered some toast. "What in hell am I supposed to do with him now?" Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the Orc was looking a little... peaked. Her brow furrowed. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he was feeling all right, but she stopped herself with an impatient huff.

"Every god damn thing I want to say...," she grumbled, trudging over to the couch where he sat, and where her pile of papers had been discarded. Sighing heavily, she sorted through the list and the grammar. "Jesus," she growled. "Simple question..."

By the time she'd figured it out, her voice betrayed her frustration over the whole situation. " _Lat krai bhoghad_?" [Are you feeling all right?]

Nargratûrz flinched at the tone in her voice, but couldn't muster much of a response. His stomach was roiling; it seemed to start shortly after the faces disappeared from the flames. Was it the meat? He wasn't used to eating such rich fare; perhaps it disagreed with him. He tried swallowing a few times, hoping what he thought was coming wouldn't, but his effort was in vain. Doubling up with a grimace, he vomited at her feet.

Thankfully not _on_ her feet; Sam was too quick for that. "Holy _shit_!" she cried, leaping backwards. The air suddenly filled with the stench of puke and...

Sam's eyes widened, staring at the puddle. In her mind's eye, there flashed a recollection of his leg after the wolf bit it. The spew had a lot of that black shit in it.

"Oh my god," she whispered, and stared at his pale, woozy face with alarm. For one crazy second, she thought razor blades were in the meat he ate somehow, like whatever urban legend terrified a nation every Halloween had just branched out into a different industry.

Weakened by the convulsive attack, Nargratûrz slumped against the back of the couch and gasped for breath for a few moments, his eyes closed. He dimly noted the _sharlob_ cleaning up the mess he'd made. Guilt assailed him, but he couldn't move to help her. Another shuddering wave hit him, and he grunted, trying to hold it back.

"Oh no, you don't," Sam snapped, and grabbed his arm. "Let me introduce you to the Porcelain Goddess," she added, dragging his staggering form into the bathroom.

On his knees and hunched over the bowl, he loosed what felt like all of his internal organs into the water. The force behind his body's ejection was so great, he had little control over anything else. Adding to his embarassment over making the first mess, was the humiliation of adding to it by pissing down his leg and soiling his leathers.

Yet all the while, the _sharlob_ spoke softly to him, stroked his forehead with a damp cloth, and rubbed his back.

"It's okay, don't worry about it," she murmured soothingly. "I guess you suddenly going all Rapey Smurf on me is off the table. Let it out, Nar. Whatever... whatever the hell's wrong with you, we'll... we'll sort it out."

As she knelt by the Orc's side, she made herself acknowledge that the black crap was his blood, and it was extremely likely that large quantities of blood in the stomach was as bad for his kind as it was for hers. It also occurred to her that this could be a disease of some sort, either carried out of his home, or picked up after he left. Was he thrown out the door because he was sick? Would _she_ catch it next?

But she couldn't just toss him into the snow herself. Maybe that sort of attitude was okay where _he_ came from, but her mother would kick her ass if she turned her back on a person in need.

"Here, let's get this stuff off you," she said gently, and began removing the hide shirt. He was too weak and trembling to resist. Even as she eased his arm out of the short sleeve, he convulsed once more. "Jesus," Sam breathed, her brow furrowed with helpless dread. Unsure what else to do, she fished in her pocket for the phone.

"Dale, I need help up here," she said shakily as soon as she heard his voice. "Like, really badly need help. Where are you?"

_Coming as fast as I can. What's wrong? Did he make a grab for you or something?_

Rolling her eyes impatiently, she snapped, " _No_ , he didn't. He's puking up his guts and I think... well, it's black, but I think it's blood. What do I do?"

_What the hell did you feed him? Rancid meat?_

"No, numb nuts, it was perfectly fresh!" she retorted. "He's been barfing for like ten minutes, and I'm scared. This isn't post-drinking binge barfing. This is turn-your-insides-out kind of barfing."

Another wave struck the Orc, as if to illustrate how dire his situation was.

_Holy shit, he sounds awful. Look, I can't even get my truck started down here. I've got Marty on the horn; he's gonna fly me up there. You think I should get Dave, too?_

"Okay, who the hell is Marty?" Sam almost shrieked. "I don't know the names of every one of your stupid little friends! Bring whoever the hell you want to, just _hurry_ , okay?"

_Jesus, calm down. Marty flies our mountain rescue chopper, and Dave's an EMT. Both are stand-up guys; they won't... Well, I hope they don't rat us out for having... whatever this guy is. Just tell them he's a, uh... he's like me only on steroids, okay?_

"Whatever," she replied, her voice quavering. "I don't want to be here alone, Dale. I don't know what to do. He's... what if he's dying? I don't know what to _do_."

_It's okay, it's all right, I'm on my way. I'll get the guys right now and we'll be there in an hour, tops._

"Faster?" she pleaded, tears beginning to fall. Nargratûrz was leaning on the toilet weakly, eyes closed and breathing raggedly.

_I'm coming. I promise._

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sam held the phone to her heart for a moment. All she could do was finish getting Nargratûrz out of his dirty hides and clean him off. She found that the black blood wasn't just in his vomit, but coming out the other end as well. She fought nausea the best she could as she wiped him down. He didn't say a word; had it not been for the growling sound of his breathing, he could have been mistaken for dead.

When she picked up his hides to throw them out the door into the snow, a handful of red seeds tumbled free and scattered across the wood floor. Furrowing her brow, Sam discarded the hides and began gathering the odd seeds. There were about a dozen of them, and they were bright, cheerful red with a single black dot. Unsure what they might be, she put them in an empty cup on the desk.

Nargratûrz loosed his weak hold on the white seat and slowly eased himself onto the cool floor. He'd never been so sick in his life. He was fairly sure he'd never seen anyone spew blood from their mouth unless they'd received a gut wound. Fear lanced through him; what did this mean? Was he going to die? Banished and left at the mercy of Outside had not killed him as was intended, but he'd at least had a chance. He could have found some way to survive, or gone down trying. Now that a helpless death was looming, he feared it as he hadn't before.

He could not fight something that stole his strength and forced the blood from his body without employing weapons. He couldn't see what was assailing him; couldn't get his hands on it, couldn't stab it with a spear or a knife. It would take him to the void, to the nothing that comes after all breath has left. Ineffectual as he'd proven himself in battle, he would be defeated by this thing without even the chance to fight.

The _sharlob_ , Sam, was trying to sooth him. She dampened a cloth and bathed his sweating body, but he was not warm. He felt chilled, as though he were still Outside. He shivered, and she put a cool hand on his forehead. Whatever the gesture told her, she whimpered, standing up quickly and leaving the little room. Nargratûrz could only lay there, unwilling to move.

In moments, she had returned with a blanket and began tucking it around him. His body ached; the floor was hard beneath him, and the racking convulsions had left him weak and trembling. " _Ghûlb-izish_ ," he begged, his normally strong, rumbling voice barely a whisper. [Help me.]

"Ssshh," Sam said gently, stroking his forehead, his cheek. Though she tried to smile, there was no encouragement in her eyes. He could see she was afraid, and his own fear mounted. "Are you cold? God, never mind." Standing, she urged him to get up. "Come on, over here. You'll be more comfortable on the couch."

Nargratûrz leaned on her heavily as she guided him to what must be 'couch.' He let her position him, and lay down gratefully on the cushions. Now she covered him more warmly with the blanket.

"I'm just gonna... fetch some wood," she told him unnecessarily. What the hell was the point? Even if he knew what she was saying, he didn't look like he was in any condition to care. Sam could barely swallow as she pulled her coat on and dove out into the swirling snow.

Shivering under the blanket, Nargratûrz slowly turned his head. Darûk was sitting in a corner watching him, her long body crouched on the floor, her chin resting on her outstretched paws. Large brown eyes stared unblinking into his. To his shock, the beast reddened and seemed to acquire far longer teeth than before, and her mouth opened wide. The Uruk froze, and his breath quickened in terror. Darûk's great head lifted off the floor and she snapped at the air, snarling menacingly.

A figure passed between Nargratûrz and the hellish beast, startling him. When Sam was past and beginning to lay a fire in the hearth, he looked back at Darûk and blinked. She was her normal self, grey-furred and curiously tilting her head at him as though he'd done something odd.

Sam worked quickly, if clumsily, and soon had the damp wood beginning to smoke. Wadded up newspaper stuffed under the logs was crackling merrily, but would likely burn away before the stupid logs got hot enough to catch completely. Rubbing her forehead with frustration, she willed the fire to take hold.

Turning to Nargratûrz, she looked at his wan face. He'd been a rich olive color before, but was now very pale. "I just don't know what to do," she murmured helplessly. A lump formed in her throat as she looked at him, his eyes on the ceiling as he gasped rapidly. He almost seemed panicked.

"You didn't ask for any of this," she went on, talking just to fill the silence. Moving to sit on the edge of the couch at his side, she found she couldn't restrain the urge to touch his face, as if gentle contact made everything bad go away. It always worked when her mom did it. The longer she looked at him, though, the closer to losing control she came.

He didn't need to speak; his eyes did all his talking for him, and they pleaded with her to save him. Perform some miracle that would take the pain away. She wanted very badly to be able to give him that miracle.

"Hang in there, Nar," she said tightly. "I don't know where you came from, or why you're here. You have to tell me everything, you know? All of it. I want to know all about your mom and your dad, whether you have brothers and sisters. I'm sure you've got at least one crazy, batshit uncle. Who doesn't, right?" Her smile was forced, her laugh brief. "There's a treasure trove inside you, and I want to count every coin, okay? So you... you stay with me. You've got a story to tell, and I want to hear it. Will you promise me? Promise you'll tell me everything?"

" _Narâdhn-izish_ ," he rasped. [Don't leave me.] The sound of her voice, though speaking incomprehensible words, calmed him somewhat. He struggled feebly to free his hand from the blanket. She took his hand in both of hers and held on.

"They're coming, Nar," she whispered, kissing his rough-skinned knuckles. A tear spilled from her eye and ran down her cheek. "They're coming."


	8. Scramble the Jets and Bring in the Sky Pilot

Sam had just emptied a third basin full of Nargratûrz's vomit when she heard the distant thrum of an incoming helicopter. Had her ears not been straining to hear it, she might not have, as hard as the wind pounded the cabin walls and rattled the glass panes. She knew she'd have to thank this Marty guy from the bottom of her heart; a storm like this couldn't be easy to navigate.

For a moment, she stood in the center of the room and stared at the ceiling as if she could see through it to the sky, listening. The sound got louder, and she could imagine the copter coming closer.

"Almost here," she said out loud. Glancing at Nargratûrz, she struggled once more against tears. She'd piled every blanket in the place on top of him, and built the fire up to generate a stifling heat, and he still shivered. His face was contorted in pain, and she knew he clutched his gut under the covers.

"Hurry," she whispered to the ceiling, hugging herself and trembling.

Unexpectedly, the _whap-whap_ of the copter blades began to fade away. They passed over the cabin completely! Beginning to panic, Sam reached for her phone, but it went off in her hand before she could frantically punch in her cousin's number.

"What's wrong?" she said immediately, not even waiting for Dale's greeting. There was a great deal of background noise from the copter's engine and the storm, making it hard for Sam to hear her cousin's shouted reply.

_Don't worry, we're looking for that clearing me and some of the guys made a few years back. I hope to hell there aren't any big trees fallen into it. It's about a mile from the cabin, so just be patient, all right? We're coming; Dave's got a huge bag of stuff. How's the Orc?_

"His name is Nargratûrz," she told him on a relieved sigh. "He's doing..."

_No way, Nargratûrz? What the hell kind of a name is that?_

" _His_ kind of name," she growled. "That's what he told me it was."

_Stupid name. It means 'worthless.' What kind of mom names her kid 'worthless'?_

Wrong-footed, Sam frowned. "Well... we haven't really talked much. It's such a huge pain in the ass and takes a long time to translate... Look, if you want to delve into his family life, get your ass over here and _fix him_."

_You said he came from the mountain?_

"I'm _guessing_ ," she said, worry about the Orc making her snappy. "The way he acts, he's not some kind of experienced mountain man who's been living rough for years or something. He seems more like someone who... got dumped... maybe left to die..." Her voice faded as she looked at the Orc. "You said he didn't... act like an Orc because... he didn't do anything to me," she said hesitantly. "Maybe... he's... _so_ unlike an Orc, the other Orcs... kicked him out."

_There are others? What, my dad's back yard is a dumping ground for misfit Orcs?_

Rolling her eyes, Sam snarled, "Stop thinking about _you_ for a minute, will you?"

_Sorry, sorry. We're almost there. Marty's cursing a blue streak, but I think we'll make it once we get below the tree line, get some cover from the wind. Dave's never done this kind of thing before; he may join your friend in the puking competition._

"Be _careful_ , all right?" Sam said urgently.

_Doing the best we can. Listen, I've gotta go. I'll call you if we run into any trouble getting to the cabin. Should only take us about a half hour more to wade through the drifts. We'll be there as soon as we can. He hanging on?_

Nodding as though her cousin could see, Sam forced herself to reply, "Yes, he's... he's okay. Sort of. Alive, anyway. Breathing. Still... still puking and..." Her voice shook as tears once more bubbled to the surface, and she sobbed, "He's lost so much blood, Dale, he's almst as white as me. When he got here, he was so dark and sort of brownish-green, but now he... Oh god, hurry, please. He can barely move, and won't talk. I can't do anything and he's in pain, and..."

_Hey, sshh sshh, it's okay. We're on our way. Professionals, remember? It's gonna be okay._

"Dale, he needs to go to the hospital," she whimpered, "but how can we take him there? They'll take one look at him and start asking questions, they'll cut him open to find out what he is, they'll do experiments on him, they'll put him in a cage..."

_None of that's going to happen. Dave'll fix him up. He probably ate something he shouldn't have. His body's getting rid of it. He'll be fine. We'll be there in a little while. Be strong, Samantha. He needs you to be strong. Don't scare him to death, and don't scare yourself. We'll be there in a bit. I can see the clearing now. Almost there... Marty says it looks good. We're coming down. Can you make it? Are you gonna be okay?_

"Yes," she said shakily, taking deep breaths to calm herself. "I... I think so."

_Be strong, now._

"Right. Strong." She took an even deeper breath and let it out slowly. "Strong. For him."

_Right. I'm hanging up now. Everything'll be fine. Remember that._

"Everything'll be fine."

_Atta girl. We're touching down. We'll see you in a bit._

Sam continued to breathe deeply after she ended the call. There was nothing she could do for the next half hour except try to make Nargratûrz comfortable. Fetching another basin, she filled it with lukewarm water from the tap and soaked a clean cloth in it. She sat once more on the edge of the couch.

"Nar," she whispered, caressing his face. He slowly opened his eyes and turned his head toward her. "Hey, there. I'm just... I'll just wash you a little, okay?" She peeled back the covers, down to his waist, and sponge-bathed his chest. The Orc's rasping breath calmed somewhat, and he closed his eyes again.

"That was my cousin Dale," she said conversationally, her voice only shaking a little. "He's almost here. You know, he's a dad. He has a couple of daughters and a son." Nar's eyes cracked open to look at her. "Yeah, I know. Someone let that man breed. Tells you what kind of crazy, mixed-up world we live in, huh? I think Andrea just felt sorry for him. I mean, honestly, he runs around in latex prosthetics all the time, waving a sword in the air and scaring kids. I've only met a few ladies that run in his circle, and even _they_ wouldn't have him. Definitely a pity marriage."

Nargratûrz returned her wan smile with a weak one of his own. He loved to hear her voice; the rich, unbroken tones, so different from those of his own people. She didn't sound like them at all.

He supposed he would never again hear those sorts of voices, but found it difficult to forget them. Listening to Sam's voice made him think, oddly enough, of his dam when he was young, how she eased his loneliness with her singing. He wished the strange visions that plagued him would bring her back. Just for a moment...

_Bûrzum-ishi graz, bûrzum-ishi quiil, kul-izg tul_   
_Fiith naakh-izub, ash gaz, kul-izg tul_   
_Mog quiil, Bûrgul mat, agh kul-izg tul_   
_Thag hontniinu-labu, ash-izub gaz, kul-izg tul_

[In the cold dark, in the quiet dark, I am here   
Take my hand, little one, I am here   
The Voice stills, the Shadow fades, and I am here   
Dry your tears (literally 'eye water'), my little one, I am here]

"That's... that's lovely, Nar," Sam murmured, caressing his face. "I didn't know your people sang songs." She found she couldn't say more; maybe it was just his rasping, halting voice, but the song felt sad. Like a lament for the dead. "Why won't they hurry?" she whispered desperately.

As if in answer, Darûk's head shot up and her ears pricked toward the door. Sam's breath stopped for a moment; there were voices outside. She shot off the couch like a bullet from a gun and wrenched the door open.

"Fuck my auntie!" one of the men barked as he entered the cabin in a swirl of snow. His face was partially hidden by a thick visor and a scarf. In his wake two other men, just as covered in thick down coats and powdery whiteness, hurried through the door. Sam slammed the door behind them.

"Thank god!" she cried with relief, but didn't know who to hug first. Preferably her cousin, but she couldn't tell which of the eskimo-bundled men was Dale. "I thought you guys would never get here."

"Holy crap, it's cold out there," Dale said once he'd peeled away the layers. "Good thing there's wood piled..." He was cut off by his cousin's desperate hug, nearly squeezing the air from his lungs. "We made it. Everything'll be fine now," he said quietly, stroking her back as she wept with relief.

"Where's the patient?" Dave asked, brushing the snow off his old-fashioned medical bag. He'd gone old school when he started his training, getting a vintage country doctor's bag. Though modern bags held more, he preferred the traditional approach.

"Over here," Sam sniffled, disengaging from Dale's arms to lead the EMT over to the couch. "He hasn't puked since you guys flew over."

"Whoa," Dave said, blinking as he looked down at the Orc. "You, uh... you weren't kidding, Dale. But if that's a bodysuit, I'm Chinese."

"Okay, forget whatever cockamaimy crap Dale told you," Sam snapped impatiently. "He's an _Orc_. Not human, _Orc_. Get over it now, because he is _dying_ and debate will only make it worse."

"She's right," Dale said sheepishly. "I thought... well, shit, I didn't think you'd believe me. Jesus, though... _look_ at him." He gazed down at the pale figure, utterly transfixed. "God damn." He stumbled out of Dave's way, moving around to lean over the back of the couch, and just stared at the Orc.

"Wait a sec, did you say _Orc_?" Marty said as he hung up his coat. "Like _real_ Orc, not Dale's gang?"

"Yes," Sam replied. "Real Orc." She hovered anxiously over Dave, now sitting on the edge of the couch and fitting a stethoscope to his ears. "Fangs and claws... the whole package."

Frowning, the pilot slowly approached the group huddled around the couch and peered over their shoulders. "Anybody... _else_ know he's here?"

Sam shot him a startled look. "No. Just you guys. Why?"

"Huh," Marty said. "Weirdest thing; there was this old man in town yesterday, just before the storm really got goin', asked me if I'd seen an Orc hereabouts. Thought he was cracked or somethin'. Either that or he saw that bit in the paper about Dale's gang hittin' the SCA whatsis and took it serious." Marty couldn't seem to muster a chuckle over it, though. Whoever, or whatever, this guy was, he was in sorry shape.

"Likely _on_ crack," Dave muttered as he listened to the Orc's heartbeat. "He look like he was using?"

"Nah," Marty shook his head. "Didn't _look_ crazy. But I guess the craziest ones don't always look so crazy, huh?"

Sam shook her head. "That's... okay, whatever. Did you say he was asking if you'd seen an Orc? Like what, wandering the streets, window-shopping?"

"Yeah, maybe," Marty shrugged. "He gave me his card, in case I tripped over one in the alley, I guess." Fishing in his pocket, he withdrew his wallet and started digging. "Got it right here, somewhere." After a few moments, he produced a brown card with silver lettering and handed it to Sam. Looking it over, she frowned.

"It's just a phone number," she said suspiciously. "No name or anything?"

"Just said to call'im if I found an Orc," Marty shrugged. "Weird, huh? Like he knew or somethin'."

"Did he look like he was with the government?" Sam probed, and the pilot snorted with amusement.

"Hell no. Looked like a damn hippie. My pa woulduh run'im off the property with a shotgun if he'd seen'im."

"Yeah, well your pa still checks the woodshed for revenooers," Dave chuckled.

"Real funny," Marty replied witheringly.

" _Lat kul-izishu-sha dâl?_ " Dale ventured cautiously, reaching down to gently prod the Orc's shoulder, and Nargratûrz's eyes fluttered open. [Are you still with us?]

Nargratûrz looked at the unfamiliar face above him, then realized he was surrounded by _shara-hai_. His breath quickened for a moment in panic, but quickly lost its steam. It took a moment to register that this one was speaking words he recognized.

" _Tugl-izgu ghûlbat lat_ ," the _shara_ told him. " _Shakrop âmul_." [We're trying to help you. Stay calm.]

"Sam, right?" Dave asked, glancing over his shoulder. "What are the symptoms? What's been happening here?"

Swallowing hard, she hugged herself as she ran down the list, noting the vomiting, the diahrea, chills and fever. The EMT nodded through the descriptions, his brow furrowing.

"Could be any number of things," he muttered, and checked the Orc's pulse. "I don't like the black vomit, though. What, did he eat a shit-ton of licorice Twizzlers or something?"

"No," Sam replied impatiently. "That's his _blood_. His blood is black."

"Come on," Dave replied. "Nobody has black blood. That's impossible."

"I'm _serious_ ," she insisted. "He was bitten by a wolf, and it came out of his leg." Seeing the EMT's skeptical expression, she said, "I'm not making this up! Run a test or something; it's _blood_."

"Well, whatever color it is," Dave said, still not entirely convinced, "he's lost a lot of it. Did he eat anything out of the ordinary? Anything you know of?"

"I don't know," she replied, exasperated. "All I know for sure is the raw meat, but I got it fresh from the grocery store before I came up here, and it's been properly stored, so I don't think that's the problem." Casting about, her eyes fell on the cup she'd left on her desk that morning. "Here, I think he might have eaten these. They were in his pocket." Fetching the cup, she handed it to Dave.

Dave's eyes widened, and all he could do for several moments was stare unblinking at the little seeds. "Ah shit," he muttered.

"Whatcha got there?" Marty asked, craning his neck to peer into the cup. Dale likewise arched over the couch, straining to see.

"What?" Sam asked, her eyes darting from one man to another.

"Sweet Mary, mother of God," the pilot breathed. His eyes met Dale's, just as stricken.

" _What_?" the woman barked even louder.

"If he ate these," Dave said in carefully measured tones, "there isn't anything I can do. If he ate more than one, he's... he's fucked, Sam." He slowly raised his eyes to hers. "This shit's deadly as hell."

"No," she said, shaking her head vigorously. "No. Something like that... doesn't grow here. What is it? How in the _hell_ could he have gotten a hold of something..."

"It's a weed, Sam," Dave said patiently. "This shit's all over the place up here. Most people know better than to mess with it."

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Ironically enough, they're called rosary peas. Thing is, they've got this pretty outside, but inside they're stuffed full of abrin." Dave looked down at the benign-seeming seeds. "One's all it takes to kill you."

"I read somethin' somewhere 'bout this shit gettin' used for chemical weapons, like ricin only twice as bad," Marty said quietly. "Send yuh to the next world in a few days of seein' weird shit and your organs shuttin' down, blowin' chunks all over, wishin' you'd die quicker'n the poison lets yuh..." Seeing Sam's horrified face, he mumbled an apology.

"Oh... oh... my god," Sam whimpered, sinking into her desk chair.

"Do we take him to a hospital, then?" Dale asked tightly. Watching his cousin slowly come apart was gut-wrenching, nearly as bad as having to stand by helplessly while this Orc suffered the sort of agony he knew came from this particular poison. "Is that the only thing that'll save him?"

"I can't do _anything_ ," Dave said, his own helplessness apparent in his voice. "Against _this_... I don't have anything... Even if I was in a hospital, I wouldn't know what to do." Spreading his hands, he added, "Shit, I don't even know if taking him to a hospital now would make any difference. If he's to the point of puking up blood... he may be dead already."

"We can't," Sam sobbed, tears streaming down her face. "We can't take him to a hospital." The men all turned to look at her; none voiced a protest. "They'll take too long asking questions and... Christ, if they're not hung up on what he is, they'll go batshit over insurance claims and liabilities and... and shit that doesn't matter. If he needs blood, where will they get it? If he needs... _anything_ , where would they get it? Then they'll want to do 'research' on him, and cut him open..."

"You've been watching too many movies," Dave said half-heartedly and unconvincingly.

"She's right," Marty said. "That'll happen, I promise you. Don't think for a second the government won't step in and haul'im off to Area 51 in a heartbeat. He won't be thankin' us for savin' him."

"No. No, he didn't ask for this shit, all right?" Sam said, roughly wiping tears away and mustering some measure of defiance. "We have to do something. We _have_ to do something. _Please_."

"Gimme that number," Marty said firmly. Sam handed the brown card back. "He seemed to know 'bout Orcs. Maybe... maybe if we bring'im in... you know?" He held Sam's gaze with his own, waiting for her permission. After a moment, she nodded. He immediately pulled out his cell phone.

It took a few rings, then the old man's gentle voice answered.

"Hey, are you the guy who gave me his card?" Marty blurted. "The one askin' 'bout an Orc?"

_Yes, most assuredly. Have you found him?_

"Yeah," Marty replied, inexplicably relieved. "Look, he's dyin'. We need help. Can you help'im?"

_Yes, I can. You will need to fetch me, and bring me to the cabin._

"Right. Where are you?"

_I will meet you at the heliport in town._

"He's sick; he's got abrin poisoning," Marty told the man. Glancing at Sam, now sobbing in her cousin's embrace, he added, "Can you do somethin' 'bout that?"

_I understand. I am prepared to deal with it. Fly swiftly; I will be waiting._

Hanging up, Marty told the anxious group, "I gotta go get'im. He said he could do somethin'."

"Be careful out there," Dale said. Marty just nodded as he pulled his coat on.

He was halfway to the clearing where he'd landed the chopper before he wondered how the old man knew they were in a _cabin_.


	9. Playing Hard to Get With Death

All Dave could do was monitor the Orc's vital signs. Brow furrowed with frustration, he racked his brains, trying to recall _anything_ that might help. He'd seen a CDC memo about this type of poison several years ago when heightened fears of terrorism, both foreign and domestic, urged caution over unsolicited mail, strange packages left unattended, and any number of other methods of delivery. Most of the country had been bent out of shape over the threat of anthrax, though. Very few were concerned about the more easily obtainable abrin powder.

The EMT never thought he'd face someone in this area, a community so accustomed to the nuisance plant that its members were practically raised from diapers knowing not to mess with it, actually suffering from exposure.

He wished he could look at this Orc and muster some kind of detached scientific interest, as well. Nargratûrz was an anomaly in Dave's experience, and most certainly ought to be explored from both medical and biological perspectives. Funny how sitting this close, listening to that skittering, uneven heartbeat, watching the icy sweat glisten on the Orc's clammy skin, robbed him of his indifference.

It didn't help that Dale's cousin was crying as though her closest friend lay dying. He almost felt as though _he_ were losing someone dear.

* * *

Sam couldn't stand hovering behind Dave or Dale, so she sat on the couch, maneuvering herself to pillow the Orc's head on her lap. It was silly, thinking that physical contact would keep him alive longer, but Sam was willing to try it.

As she stroked his face and smoothed his coarse hair, she couldn't help thinking about her father. He'd passed away when she was a child, barely old enough to understand what it meant to die. Unfortunately, she grasped the concept while he lay suffering in the hospital, and knew exactly what she would lose when that beeping machine stopped.

She felt as helpless now as she had then. Compounding the loss of a parent was the loss of _knowing_. Her father had traveled the world; she would never know all the places he'd been, all the things he'd seen and done. Her father was a geologist; there were things the rocks told him that he'd never had the chance to tell her. What was it like to grow up in Montana? Did he fall in love with her mother when they first met? Where was he when he heard JFK was assassinated? So many unanswered questions, so many untold stories...

She barely knew Nargratûrz, but there was something about him, something that begged her to come closer. _I am a person like no other you've met before,_ he seemed to say. _Come inside and explore; I have so much to tell you._

"Tell me everything, _please_ ," she whispered, and a tear fell, landing on Nargratûrz's cheek. His yellow eyes fluttered open a little.

It seemed to take a great deal of effort for him to speak, and his voice was weak and hoarse. " _Lat blord-izish-ûr_?" he rasped, somewhat surprised. [You weep for me?]

"First thing I'm going to do," she told him shakily, "is teach you English."

* * *

Leaning over the back of the couch, Dale fretted as he watched his cousin caress the Orc. It was easier to let himself bristle over the idea of Sam taking a shine to someone like an Orc, with all the things he knew about them. Hard as it was to reconcile Orcs as _he_ knew them with Nargratûrz, he still wanted to paint this guy with the same brush.

He couldn't get over the stupid _name_. What the hell kind of parent named their kid 'useless'? He couldn't fathom it. If they thought he deserved a name like that, shouldn't they have offed him at birth?

Rubbing his face roughly, Dale had to admit he was just distracting himself from the real worry: a _person_ was dying, and if they didn't pull a miracle out of their asses in the next day or so, he wasn't going to make it.

Without knowing why, he started talking to the Orc.

" _Lat skaatuz urbh-ishi-ghaara_ ," he said quietly. [You came from inside the mountain.] Nargratûrz slowly shifted his attention from Sam.

" _Akh_ ," he replied. " _Afuz-izg-lût. Narkuluz-izg zashu nagaz. Snaag. Narzash. Mokum._ " [I was cast out. I was not like the others. Weak. Different. Hated.]

" _Amat ulu mokut-lat_?" Dale asked with a frown. [Why would they hate you?]

A slight smile twitched Nargratûrz's mouth. " _Nar mauk-izg bhoghad. Narmok-izg_ _kulûktoru. Nargzab-izg iistat gus gundu agh hornu._ " Shrugging, he concluded, " _Kul-izg snaag._ " [I do not fight well. I like beautiful things. I am curious about rocks and animals. I am weak.]

Nargratûrz's sweaty brow furrowed and he looked away for a moment. With a great effort, he said, " _Lat kul sha_ _û_ _k Sam-ob._ " [You are Sam's mate.]

Startled, Dale glanced at his cousin and was relieved to see her still idly stroking the Orc's head, blissfully ignorant of what the Orc just said. Dale swallowed uncomfortably; that statement put a really gross thought in his head he wished hadn't gone in there.

"Uh... _nar,_ " he said firmly, shaking his head, " _narkul_ - _izg. Ta narbrusat ash._ " [No, I'm not. She doesn't have one.] Frowning, he asked, " _Ta bugduzat-izish 'sha_ _û_ _k'?_ " [Did she call me 'mate'?] Nargratûrz nodded silently, and Dale sighed. " _Ta nar iistat pukhal. Ta nar iistat amal 'sha_ _û_ _k' nûmat_ ," he explained. Frowning over the lack of vocabulary at his disposal to convey _this_ concept, he took a deep breath and plunged in. " _Ta kul lûb kranklûk-ob krank-ob-izub_." [She doesn't know the language. She doesn't know what ' _sha_ _û_ _k_ ' means. She is my cousin (literally 'daughter of the brother of my father').]

Nargratûrz seemed to sag with relief, and smiled a little. " _Ghung nar mat-izg, nargzab-izg to nargzabat-izish. Ta kulubat sha _û_ k-mir, ghung kulub-izg turkûrz bugdat to zash._" [If I don't die, I want her to want me. She would be a good mate, if I could be worthy to call her the same.]

Wrong-footed on so many levels, Dale gaped for a second before rallying. Now was probably not the time to shoot down any whimsical idea the Orc entertained if it helped him last another hour. Marty would be back soon.

Dale especially didn't want to imagine his cousin necking in the backseat with someone like Nargratûrz. It would almost be as bad as thinking of one of his daughters going on her first date with _anyone_.

Forcing an encouraging smile, he reached down to pat the Orc's shoulder. " _Lat runk at-ishi, bhoghad? Nar modhn gus shokat. Modhn gus slaiat._ " [You hang in there, all right? Don't worry about mating. Worry about living.]

" _Nargzab-izg nar matat_ ," Nargratûrz said, his ragged voice hitching. " _Nar zash za._ " For the first time, Dale saw real fear in the Orc's eyes. [I don't want to die. Not like this.]

Dale swallowed hard. " _Tugl-izgu puzgat-lat matuga-ghaara._ " [We're trying to keep you from dying.]

" _Lat kul mau?_ " Nargratûrz asked. [Are you a warrior?]

Eyes burning and jaw clenching, Dale said, " _Akh, kul-izg._ " [Yes, I am.]

" _Lat brus dulug_?" The Orc's voice broke and tears spilled from his eyes. [Do you have a weapon?] A mirthless chuckle escaped. " _Kraiub-izg hûr yonk ghung fiithub-izg dulug._ " [I would feel braver if I held a weapon.]

Dale swiped away his own tears and shook his head. "Ah, god dammit. _Nar, nar kramp-izg. Gotl-izish._ " [No, I don't. I'm sorry.] The disappointment on the Orc's face, even as he nodded acceptance, wrenched a groan from Dale. He dragged the back of his fist across his mouth, grimacing with the effort not to lose it.

"Dave," Dale rasped, "how's he doing?"

"Hanging on," the EMT replied thickly. He held the stethoscope chestpiece over Nargratûrz's left breast. "Not as strong as it was, but still going."

" _Shakrop durbûrz_ ," Dale told Nargratûrz firmly. [Stay strong.]

* * *

Marty didn't bother knocking when he returned; he barged right into the cabin, the strange old man in his wake. Stamping his feet to shake the snow loose, Marty called unnecessarily, "Made it. He still with us?"

"Yeah, over here," Dale replied. He glanced at Sam; she looked relieved and hopeful, but there was dread as well. One more piece of bad news was all it would take, he mused.

As Marty helped the old man out of his heavy coat, Dale approached. He was immediately struck by the incongruously brown hair on a man seemingly in his seventies or more; not a grey hair on his head, or in the long, well-trimmed beard that covered his chest. In keeping with Marty's assessment that the man looked like a Hippie, he wore an African dashiki decorated in soft earth tones. The aged face was a rich brown as well, but somehow not like an African American or South Asian, and not like someone who simply worshipped tanning booths. One look in the eyes, though, and Dale suddenly felt very small; almost infantile.

This old man had seen a hell of a lot.

"Uh... you were looking for an Orc," Dale said awkwardly. "He's right over here."

"Thank you for accepting me into your home," the man said politely as he followed Dale to the couch. Dave stood up.

"Are you a doctor?" he asked.

A slight smile played on the old man's lips. "I'm afraid not, young man. I am merely a caretaker." His gaze fell not upon the Orc, but on Sam. His eyebrow lifted slightly.

"Everybody, this is Mr. Wendell," Marty supplied as he joined them. "Mr. Wendell, that there's Dave, Dale, and Sam. And, uh... Nargratûrz."

"I'm very pleased to meet all of you," Mr. Wendell said with a bow.

"Please, sir," Sam said tightly, her hands never leaving the Orc's face, never stopping their soothing motion, "can you help him? Can you do something?"

A kindly smile softened Mr. Wendell's expression. "I see by your tears that this Orc is among friends. I confess, I've not seen such compassion for their plight in all the years I've dealt with them. This is most... encouraging."

"All the years... What do you mean?" Dale frowned.

"I mean, my friend, that he is not the first to emerge, and likely not the last." There was a note of sadness in the old man's voice. "It is unfortunately becoming more common, though the last one to be... cast out, as it were, was on the other side of the world, and a century ago."

"What happened to him?" Marty asked.

Mr. Wendell glanced at the pilot. "I did not find him before the Swiss authorities did, alas. They were terribly confused and afraid, as one might expect. No less than the Orc, of course. You see, Orcs hide because long ago, they were hunted nearly to extinction by your people. They have remained sealed in their mountains for thousands of years, never changing their ways. They remember from whom they ran, and upon whom to lay the blame for their confinement."

"Why do they... cast them out?" Sam asked. She glanced down at Nargratûrz; his eyes were closed. She didn't think he was even aware that the old man had arrived.

"Orcs do not change very easily," Mr. Wendell replied. "Had they remained in the world, and were left alone, they may have adapted and blended in. But they could not stay. The wrath of Men was too great a force to stand against. Though they were spared a bloody end, running from such a fate has cost them a great deal. Now they cannot tolerate any of their kind... deviating from the expected, one might say."

"Okay, I'll bite," Marty interjected, "since nobody else is steppin' up. What the hell're you talkin' 'bout? You're sayin' you actually knew this Orc... a _century_ ago? How the hell old _are_ you?"

Mr. Wendell beamed at the pilot. "Most observant. Yes, I knew him, as did a certain university student on holiday in the Alps that summer. The student spent considerable time in the Orc's company within the government facility, learning the Orc's language so to communicate with him. I was obliged to make my own way in."

"Who are you really?" Dale asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowed.

"No one of consequence," Mr. Wendell replied. "Merely, as I said, a caretaker." Something in the old man's eyes told Dale that he'd get no more than this.

"You... take care of Orcs," Sam said quietly.

"My task has ever been the stewardship of the beasts and birds, the land and vegetation," the old man explained. "Because Orcs are neither as savage as beasts, nor as civilized as Men, I have... adopted them, so to speak. In the beginning, I assured the safety of those who encountered them, for an Orc out of his element and faced with death becomes quite violent."

"You mean you killed them," Dave stated flatly.

Mr. Wendell's face clouded with remorse. "I am afraid I have been forced to do so on many occasions, yes. None grieved me quite so much as the last one. He was, as you no doubt suspect, the subject of much exploration and examination. You see, an Orc's body regenerates more swiftly than a Man's. He may recover from a wound that would kill a Man, or resist the effects of diseases you would fall prey to. Mankind's desperation to find cures for devastating diseases has, at times, known no bounds, even ethical ones. Particularly when the victim has no voice and no advocate."

Sighing, he continued, "His name was Dufulb, and he begged me for death, such was the suffering he endured for the sake of 'scientific curiosity.' He had committed no crime nor any act of mischief. He simply emerged in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I believe the time he spent conversing with that student was pleasant for him."

"Um... this student...," Dale ventured, and Mr. Wendell smiled.

"One in the same," he confirmed. Again, his expression implied further questioning would bear no fruit.

"How did he get _here_ , though?" Dale pressed, switching tactics. "I thought... that story was supposed to be set in Europe."

"In those days," Mr. Wendell said with a smile, "it was possible to traverse from the far east to this new world by means of a narrow strip of land. That connection has long been severed. No doubt some fleeing Orcs sought refuge across that bridge."

"Look," Sam interjected, her voice shaking hard as tears poured down her face. While they bantered on about an Orc a hundred years ago and god knew what other nonsense, Nargratûrz wheezed and shuddered. He could breathe his last while they meandered around the real reason Marty risked his life to bring the old man here. "I don't know who you are, but if you can save him, please do."

"I can, but you must promise me," Mr. Wendell said sternly, "that you will protect him from your people. Keep him secret, keep him safe. Men are not ready to see Orcs walking about the world. His life would be a misery were he discovered. He would suffer unto his death for the betterment of Men, or so they would believe."

"I promise," Sam sobbed, squeezing her eyes shut. "I promise. I'll do anything. Please _hurry_."

"Yeah, me too," Dale said with a nod. "My dad doesn't come up here much anymore; he can stay here. We'll look out for him."

"I won't say a thing to anybody," Dave agreed.

"Mum's the word," Marty chimed in.

Mr. Wendell's gaze travelled from one to the next, his smile broadening. "I can't tell you what a relief this is. There is hope for his kind after all." Sighing, he added, "I had thought I would be called upon to slay an Orc today. Thank the Valar today is not that day." Smiling once again, he approached the Orc and took Dave's place, perching on the edge at Nargratûrz's hip.

" _Fûth, ash fiim_ ," the old man said gently, placing his palm on the Orc's forehead. [Waken, young one.] Nargratûrz's eyes fluttered open. " _Lat zaug ghashnat-izish lab bugud âshûrz,_ " Mr. Wendell went on, " _nar amal ikhuz lat-ir tiil. Ta kulat bugud narturkûrz._ " [You must tell me your first name, not what was forced upon you last. It is an unworthy name.]

Nargratûrz felt no ability to resist, and possessed no will to defy. He was beyond the reach of the elders who shunned him, instead feeling closer to the dam who sang to him. She would be offended by the name they'd given her little one. Sighing, he said, "Hornhûr."

" _Za kul maaz_ ," Mr. Wendell beamed. [That is better.] Pulling the blanket down to expose the Orc's naked torso, the old man placed his palms flat upon Hornhûr's heart and belly, then said, " _Lat zaug dhûlat, Hornh_ _û_ _r fiim. Amukh lat fûthub, lat kulub fol urzkû._ " [You must sleep, young Hornhûr. When you waken, you will be whole again.]

" _Amukh fûthub-izg, kulub-izg turkûrz Sam-ob_?" [When I waken, will I be worthy of Sam?]

" _Lat kul rad_ ," Mr. Wendell replied with a knowing smile. [You already are.]


	10. Epilogue: Unexpected Connections

"So... they haven't seen the surface in thousands of years?" Sam asked, and Mr. Wendell nodded.

"Indeed not," he confirmed as they strolled beneath the trees. New leaves were beginning to bud and the sound of cheerful birdsong was all around. "The concept of seasonal change was lost to them so many generations ago, they have no memory of it now."

Ahead of them, Hornhûr could barely walk a straight line; his eyes darted and ears pricked toward every bird's chirp and squirrel's rustle in the underbrush, and his nose quivered with the bombardment of new smells as the world seemed to change before his eyes. Only a week ago, there was still a thick layer of snow on the ground. Already, the early thaw revealed earth and leaves he'd had to dig for when he first emerged.

"It's like he's from another planet, in a way," Sam murmured. The last few months cooped up in the cabin with the Orc hadn't been without its challenges, but at least her threat to teach him English had borne fruit. Hornhûr may have been undervalued by his people, but Sam was impressed with his sharp mind and quick absorption. She didn't have to refer to the Orcish dictionary nearly as often now as when they started.

"You could say that, yes," Mr. Wendell chuckled. "It pleases me whenever I visit, seeing him blossom and grow. I confess, he is the first who has had a place in which to flourish. He adapts far better than I gave his folk credit for."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, then blushed a little. "He's... made himself right at home."

"Has he?" the old man said, his brow arched. His warm, brown eyes seemed to probe into her heart, and she found herself embarrassed by what he likely saw there. He smiled gently. "Samantha, I am as old as the wind and the sky, the earth and the water, yet I am not blind, and I do remember the simpler things."

"It's not... all that simple," she protested weakly. "We're so... different. I mean, he... I don't understand him half the time, and it gets really frustrating. But I... there's something about him..." Sighing and shrugging helplessly, she concluded, "I just don't know what to make of him. He looks like... _that_ , but he's not..."

"I see," Mr. Wendell nodded. "He bears the look of a beast, yet he is gentle-natured. What you see, I believe, is the tempering of his ancestry, and likely the reason he was cast out." Furrowing his brow thoughtfully, he clarified, "Perhaps not entirely the reason, but a factor in the decision. You see, his people were obliged to treat females deferentially for their own survival. I can see in Hornhûr a greater degree of this... deference, even with males, than I have ever encountered."

"So... he's too big of a wimp?" Sam ventured uncertainly, and Mr. Wendell chuckled.

"That isn't quite how I would put it, but yes," he replied. "But of course, we can only guess. He has not even told _me_ , in his own tongue, what urged his removal. We have not seen him particularly provoked, either. One might label him... a throw-back, as it were, to his human ancestry. But he may only exhibit such tendencies when there are no threats to him or... his mate." He glanced significantly at Sam; her cheeks reddened and she looked away.

"Are you, um, telling me that... way back in the dark ages," she said awkwardly, "Orcs like Hornhûr... were... that they interbred with humans? Like, happy little communities of Orcs and humans and all their... uh... weird-looking kids?" She smiled wanly.

Mr. Wendell sighed, bowing his head."You have not asked, and I'm certain he has not the means of telling you himself just yet, so I shall tell you myself." Pausing in their walk, he gathered his thoughts. "Hornhûr is an Uruk, or so they called themselves long ago. They were bred for a particular purpose, not intended to survive beyond attaining their master's goal. They were Orcs bred for war, and little else. To make them stronger and more intelligent than their progenitors, and more tolerant of the sun as well, their master bred them with Men."

"Bred them," Sam said hesitantly, glancing at Hornhûr as he bent down to examine a clump of early-blooming flowers. "Like... animals?"

"Yes, very like animals," Mr. Wendell replied. "His people don't recall very much more than myths of their forefathers, even less of those who bore them. For indeed, such were their master's aims and methods that he disdained females, and only bred males. When their master was defeated and Men began to hunt them, their only recourse was to continue breeding with Men lest their race end. Or more specifically, with Women."

"Um...," Sam ventured, feeling very uncomfortable all of a sudden, "you're... probably going to tell me this, um... wasn't..."

"No, it was not," Mr. Wendell said sadly. "Women were captured and dragged into hiding with them, forced to bear half-Orc young as their predecessors had. The Uruk-hai were not aided by other Orcs due to their unique making; Orcs did not trust them. The most they could hope for was shared space beneath the ground; Orcs would not share their females. And so the Uruk-hai had little choice."

"Those women had none," Sam growled, folding her arms over her chest. She found herself staring at Hornhûr as he avidly watched a bird tuck and tie grass and twigs to build a nest.

"Do not blame Hornhûr for the deeds of his ancestors," Mr. Wendell said quietly. "After all, something good _did_ come of their actions."

"I can hardly wait," she muttered, feeling a bit nauseous. "What 'good' came of it?"

"Well, because the Uruk-hai were never exposed to females, they were likewise not acquainted with child-rearing," he said, a touch of ironic amusement in his voice. "An interesting evolution occurred, which you can see in Hornhûr today. To ensure their young would survive, and therefore their race as a whole, the Uruk-hai... softened. At least with regards to females. While my understanding from the few I've spoken with is not complete, I have been able to deduce a few interesting points based on what their society is like now.

"To begin with, females in their clans hold a great deal of power. They dictate with whom they mate, for whom they bear young, how often they do so, and when. They are protected from all harm, whether from outside the clan or within it. If a female does not wish to mate, she does not have to. If she does, she may choose her suitor. Or, indeed, _suitors_." His brown cheeks reddened a little. "There are even those whose... purpose is... well, you would call them 'prostitutes' today. But even _they_ may choose... whom they serve." A half-smile curved his mouth. "Hornhûr told me that he was labeled 'coward' by his people. An Uruk prostitute will not... associate with a coward."

"Are you saying he's a virgin?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Yes, quite," Mr. Wendell said awkwardly. "While the Uruk-hai are outwardly male-dominated, the females hold power of their own even at the lowest rank. As I understand it, the chieftain of an Uruk clan may have two wives, but no more. Other Uruks in the clan may only have one. They tend not to... 'mate for life,' as it were, but they _can_ , just as an Orc is able to."

"Isn't it a conscious choice?" she frowned. "What do you mean, 'able to'?"

"Orcs... pair-bond, I believe is the term," he replied. "It is a conscious choice to do so, yes, but it is a physical... _chemical_ , you might say, connection that is quite different from the way animals that bond go about it. Perhaps because the Orc is a higher form of animal, incorporating intelligence and emotion, self-awareness and empathy... any number of things which set them apart. The Uruk-hai lost this ability for a time, or were unable to control when it occurred. Over time, and perhaps through cross-breeding with their Orcish cousins, the ability returned. They may bond, or 'mate for life,' if they choose to. However, it is a very strong commitment that is not taken lightly, for unlike among animals, it cannot be repeated with another if the mate dies."

"Ew," Sam remarked sympathetically. She thought of her own parents; her mother grieved for years after Sam's father passed on, but was able, after maybe a decade, to love again. Sam barely remembered whether her mom was happy with her dad, but certainly saw evidence of it with her step-father. If a bond like that had been in place, would her mother grieve forever and never be happy? No wonder the Orcs didn't just do it willy-nilly.

"Tell me what concerns you, Samantha," Mr. Wendell urged. "All that I have seen of young Hornhûr these past few months has told me he cares for you. I do not believe you have anything to fear from him. Were he an Orc, perhaps you would have cause for concern; they are not... quite as solicitous to human women as the Uruk-hai have, by necessity, become."

"Do I even want to know what you mean by that?" Sam whimpered, rubbing her forehead. Before Mr. Wendell could reply, she nodded. "Yeah, I think I do. What sort of... crap would an Orc throw my way? Just so I have the comparison."

Suppressing an amused smile, the old man said, "To begin with, an Orc would have, likely, slain and eaten you almost immediately. They, at least, hold firm to their hatred of Men. They have not the history of interbreeding that colors an Uruk's opinion; in fact, I believe they utterly disdain such practices, and consider issue from an Orc and a Man as tainted. Dufulb was quite old, and remembered tales passed down from his elders; tales which told of the battles with the _baalak_. They do not even call Hornhûr's people 'Uruk,' but rather 'half-breed.' Very often, they use derogatory terms that would embarrass any listener."

Grimacing a little, Sam stole another glance at Hornhûr, peacefully laying on a rock some flowers he'd picked. A few still had their roots, and a smile played about her face, watching him. One by one, he arranged the flowers side by side, taking great care that their stems all met in a straight line.

Mr. Wendell noticed her soft expression, and followed her gaze. "When you look at him," he said quietly, "what do you see?"

"Innocence," she murmured. "Wonder." She shook herself and turned away. An uncomfortable look was on her face. "I don't know... how I feel."

His smile was kind. "I think you do," Mr. Wendell said.

Sam hesitated, unsure what to say or how to say it. Hugging herself, she said quietly, "I... think about... him... a lot. Not really innocent sort of thinking, either." Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt her cheeks heat up and ducked her head. The old man chuckled warmly.

"He speaks to your heart in words no one else hears," Mr. Wendell suggested. "You found him in the wilderness, held him when he lay dying, and spent the last four months in his company. What made you urge my hand? Why did you want me to save him?"

"Because he was dying," she said incredulously. "God, it's what _anyone_ would do."

Mr. Wendell shook his head sadly. "Not everyone, Samantha. You saved him for _his_ sake, not your own, correct?"

Frowning, she said, "Of course. I don't know what..."

"Dufulb was kept alive, but in such a state that he begged for death of his captors, of the student, and of me," he told her. "Only I, and eventually the student, even knew what he was saying. I was there; I doubt very much that if the scientists _had_ known his pain, they would have done anything for _his_ sake. They saw his potential to serve their own ends, as has been the way of things with Orcs for countless generations."

"They were slaves," Sam said, the light dawning. Everything he'd said about the Uruk-hai being _bred_... She'd read 'Roots'; even as recently as two centuries ago, mankind was not above breeding other humans for particular traits. One could only get away with that sort of behavior when slavery was institutionalized, as it was then. Slavery was rarely seen out in the open today, at least in 'civilized' countries, but something told her the only reason why Orcs were no longer slaves was because their masters all died, not because some banner-waving advocate urged reforms.

"They were," Mr. Wendell nodded. "From the moment of their first emergence to the day they sealed themselves within their vaults and caverns, they were slaves. Orcs somehow carved out an existence, a culture, a way of living, when their masters were too weakened by war and strife to command them, but these times were never lengthy. Men and Elves did not require the master's presence to slaughter his slaves, so the Orcs remained aggressive and violent toward any intruder. I am afraid they did not often wait for attacks to come; rather, they sought out their enemies, bringing the conflict to them, choosing the time and place for battle, and for vengeance. Orcs live for centuries, if allowed to do so; they do not forget a wrong." Sighing, he bowed his head. "Those were bloody times."

Glancing at Sam, he chuckled, and a dark cloud seemed to lift. "Listen to me, warbling about the past as any aged Man would. What is most important is the here and now; what passed ages ago, is past. We speak of Hornhûr, not the multitudes who came before him. What say you of him? What are your... feelings? I promise, nothing you say will offend or shock me. I have already seen a good deal of it in your manner with him; it seems you only need to speak of it to make it... 'real' to you, perhaps?"

"I guess I... I want him to be... what he _looks_ like," Sam said hesitantly. Her gaze fell upon Hornhûr again. He'd gathered up the flowers into a bouquet and was coming to her, a shy smile on his face. Sighing, she returned his smile, her heart swelling. "I'm glad he is what he is, though," she murmured.

Hornhûr held the flowers out to her, waiting for her to accept them. His grin broadened when she did. "You," he said, nodding to her, "pretty, like flower."

"Thank you," she blushed, ducking her head to hide her pleased smile.

Glancing at Mr. Wendell, Hornhûr nodded to him, then wandered off again. There was so much to see, such a wide world of smells and sounds...

Mr. Wendell watched the young Uruk pick his way carefully around the bushes and trees, examining each one with interest. "He is different, and you fear that," he said evenly, then glanced at Sam to gauge her reaction. As expected, she frowned and looked away.

"Yeah, that's... yeah," she acknowledged with a nod. "I'm ashamed of that, actually. I look at him and... god, this is embarrassing," she faltered, her voice trailing off. "If he was... human, I'd be... well... dammit, there's no delicate way of... Okay, I'd be sleeping with him." She shrugged helplessly. "You probably think that's gross."

"Actually, I don't," Mr. Wendell replied mildly. "The affection of one being to another is perfectly natural. That he is an Uruk and you are a human makes little difference, in the grand scheme of things." Smiling at her, he added, "Let go of your own prejudices, and do not look for them in others. This is between you and Hornhûr."

Closing her eyes and bowing her head, Sam nodded. It was true; she spent too much time worrying about what other people would say, and not enough examining what _she_ felt. In all honesty, no one else besides her cousin, who was half cracked anyway, and a couple of his friends even knew Hornhûr was _here_. They took turns bringing groceries up to the cabin all through the harsh winter months, keeping Sam and Hornhûr well-supplied. Marty even taught the Uruk how to split logs like a champ. Apart from them, there was Dale's wife and kids, who'd come out after the worst of the storms had blown over, to 'see the Orc.' Other than Dale's teen-aged daughters exchanging an 'ew' face over Hornhûr's bestial features, there had been little comment.

But none knew the way Sam was beginning to feel about her roommate, either.

"Yes," she finally conceded with a nod, "it's between us." Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. The old man's visits were never without these moments of deep thought and quiet revelation, she mused. It seemed less strange every time she saw him that he actually witnessed the exodus of the Orcs into hiding so many millenia ago he couldn't even estimate a ballpark number. One thing frequently leapt to mind for Sam, though, but usually only after he'd left. Not so this time, thankfully.

"Mr. Wendell," she ventured, "how do you know when an Orc or Uruk gets thrown out? I'm guessing they don't drop you an email about it."

"No, indeed not," Mr. Wendell chuckled. "Let us say that a little bird tells me." As always, his cryptic words were delivered with a twinkle in his eye and an underlying sense that it was a mystery he would not reveal anytime soon. Sam shook her head resignedly.

A completely unnatural bird call sounded from the region of Sam's pocket. Grinning sheepishly, she muttered, "The shattering glass scares the bejesus out of Hornhûr." She took out her phone and answered it.

"Hello?"

_Oh thank god. This is Sam, right? Dale's cousin?_

"Yes," Sam replied hesitantly, her brow furrowing. "Who is this?"

_You probably don't remember me. Shit, I'm guessing about all of Dale's friends are like one big prosthetics nightmare for you._

"Yeah, actually," she conceded. Sam's frown deepened; the voice was vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place it. The fact that this woman knew _her_ made her wrack her brains trying to come up with the name so she wouldn't have to embarrass herself by asking.

_Listen, this is like the shittiest thing anyone's ever done to you, but I need help in a major way, and you're the only one who... well, nobody knows I know you. If I'm lucky, I won't be connected to Dale, either, but you're... further out of the loop and... I'm in so much trouble, you have no idea._

Though Mr. Wendell obviously couldn't hear the voice on the phone, Sam met his eyes in bewilderment anyway. "Slow down, okay? What's going on? What kind of trouble?"

_Dammit, hold on a sec..._

There was a brief pause, and Sam's frown deepened as she heard a loud, rough voice say something incoherent on the other end. "What...?"

_Jesus, sorry. I've gotta get off the grid. Go into hiding. I know Dale's dad had some kind of cabin up in the mountains. Can you get me there? I'll worry about working things out with him later. I'm out of options. I don't know where to go. They're gonna find me. Can you help me? Please?_

The woman's desperate voice was hitching as though she were fighting tears. "Look," Sam said, trying to calm her down, "everything'll be okay. Just... tell me who you are. I'm sorry, I'm drawing a blank here."

_Sorry, sorry. It's been awhile. Remember that campaign Dale's guys did about... crap, five years ago, I think? Where they ended up getting arrested for public indecency or something?_

Sam's jaw fell open as it all came rushing back. It wasn't indecency, but intoxication; that hardly mattered now. She remembered who this was, and all but whispered the name with stunned realization: "Biz?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this installment ends so another can pick up 'the rest of the story.' If you're wondering who Biz is, check out Weird Summoning now posting here on AO3. Why she's on the run will be painfully clear... as soon as I get back to writing that fic. :)


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